The Choices that Define Us
by Melancholy's Child
Summary: Immediately after the musical, Christine struggles with moving on. When she finally decides to start making choices for herself, her life and that of her Opera Ghost will collide once again. Post-canon. E/C. Sloooow burn. Eventually, will be rated M. COMPLETE.
1. The Immediate Aftermath

**A new E/C fic! It's completely different from "Chandelier," so I hope you all enjoy it.**

 **This will be a multi-chapter fic that takes place immediately following the musical. It's heavily based on the 25th anniversary PotO performance by Ramin and Sierra with only a smidgen of Kay canon thrown in.**

 **Right now, this is rated T. Later chapters will most definitely turn to Mature.**

 **As always, feed the author! :)**

* * *

 **The choices that define us**

 **Chapter 1: the immediate aftermath**

"Christine."

The heel of her right ankle throbbed. She was sure these shoes had caused a blister, their unbroken black-stained leather rubbing up and down across the bone as she walked.

"Christine!"

He had given her exactly one minute to change from Aminta into his bride, his rage swirling on the other side of the curtain as he spit every second of his countdown at her. She had broken a nail, torn more than one button on her costume, in her haste to change. There had been no time to switch from Aminta's black boots to the white silk slippers he had left, but he had paid her feet no mind, latching onto her elbow with cold, iron-hard fingers and jerking her into the main room of his home.

"I say, _Christine_!"

She snapped her eyes upward. Lost in memories, she half-expected to meet the dark brown eyes of the Phantom, their depths swirling with a range of emotions. Instead, Raoul's blue sky eyes – they almost looked green in the glow of the torch – looked down at her with concern.

Concern and more than a little annoyance.

"Yes?" she said in a choked whisper.

"I have been calling your name for several minutes, Christine." He puffed a breath. She realized he was still holding her hand, only remembering because he squeezed her fingers. "You are limping."

"I have a blister." Her voice sounded far away, her mouth moving on its own. "I am fine." Raoul's hand was large and warm around hers. _His_ hands had been large too, broad-palmed and long-fingered, but so cold beneath her touch, colder than the bite of the metal ring she passed to him. She had pressed a kiss to his knuckles and for a brief second, his skin had heated beneath her lips.

Pressure around her fingers, and she gasped, jerking back her hand. She turned the defensive motion into a gesture meant to sweep the damp bangs from her forehead, ignoring the look in Raoul's gaze.

"I will not leave you here," he said in a clipped tone. "I shall carry you if I must."

The red marks along his throat shifted as he spoke, and shame welled up within her. "No, I can walk." She moved forward again, and they continued their trek through the winding tunnels of the Phantom's domain.

How long had they been walking? Their journey seemed long enough that they should have found the exit by now, but the mob had forced them to venture down other paths to avoid them. Christine had known these people for years, had performed alongside them, broken bread with them, but their voices echoing off the rocky caverns now seemed foreign to her. Raoul had also seemed to sense the danger in crossing paths with the frenzied group, for he had not protested when she insisted they avoid them.

 _Christine, I love you_.

She had thought _he_ might be gone, when she dipped back inside his residence to return his ring. She hadn't asked Raoul for permission, and thought that was probably why he had not let go of her hand in the time since, instead slipping away when his back was turned in a sudden urge to see her angel one more time.

No, not her angel. A man, just a man, and a man she hoped would not still be there, but he was, on his knees next to his music box. She had heard his weeping before she saw his slumped form. When he had noticed her, he had straightened, half-heartedly trying to readjusted his rumpled clothing, and his eyes… oh, _his eyes_.

 _Christine, I love you_.

Staring at Raoul's back and holding up the front of her dress – her _wedding_ dress – with one hand, she pressed her other to her mouth to stifle a sob. Falling apart now would do no more than hinder them in getting free of these wretched tunnels.

They climbed. And before long, the mob's shouts fell behind them until they could hear only their own footsteps. At some point, Raoul took her hand again, and she didn't protest. Exhaustion was seeping into her very bones, and she stumbled more than once, needing his firm grip to remain on her feet.

Finally, they exited out of an open panel in a wall and stepped into an empty closet backstage. Raoul seemed to know where he wanted to go, and though her thoughts flitted to her regular clothes and belongings tucked inside her dressing room, she dared not suggest they go and fetch them. He tugged her down a hallway and out a side door. The damp cold of a wintry night hit her face; she was already chilled from the cellars, and now her half-bare arms began to shake from the increased chill.

The streets of Paris were still filled with stragglers leftover from the botched performance, some show attendees standing in groups and speaking in hushed voices, while others wandered around as though they were not sure if they should go home or not.

Raoul tried to lead her to the front of the opera house, but she shrank back. Already, she had been noticed, her white dress stark against the nighttime.

"I can't go there, Raoul," she said, hating the panic that made her voice shrill. "Please, let me stay here. I will wait right here until you find a cab."

He hesitated, then nodded and kissed her knuckles. Then he was off in a flash down the street and around the corner.

Christine could not bear the whispers that were now being directed her way. She ducked back inside the side door, breathing easier now that she was away from everyone else. She rubbed her arms in an effort to warm them.

The moment of freedom was upon her, but beyond the walls of the opera house lay an unknown world. She had been used as bait to lure her Maestro into a trap of guns and death, and instead he had turned the tables against them once again. Even though he had yanked her between the walls of the opera house too quickly for her to see what had happened on stage behind them, the echoes of the ballerinas' screams, Meg's rising among them, and the shrieks of the audience, had stayed with them as they plunged into the darkness. What had he done to give them time to escape? How had he seamlessly switched places with Monsieur Piangi?

These questions began to consume her. Christine lifted a hand to her chest to feel the rise and fall of her chest that began to quicken, her fingertips centimeters from the sore spots on her neck where he had unwittingly choked her in his rage. Why hadn't she just gone with Raoul instead of waiting here? She could brave the gossip of the crowds, had dealt with that and more in the weeks leading up to _Don Juan Triumphant_.

When the door sprung open, she jumped, her heart racing, but it was only Raoul once again.

Her face must have been white in the dim light because he hurried to her, grasping her upper arms. "What is it? Did something happen?"

"No, nothing," she assured him. "Please, may we go now?"

His arm was a solid weight around her shoulders as he guided her out the door once again. She had no cloak and he was merely in his shirtsleeves, but a black stagecoach was pulling alongside them and they were able to climb inside. She did not ask where they were going. What did it matter as long as it was away from here?

They rode in silence for a long moment before Christine whispered the question lingering on her heart: "He murdered Ubaldo Piangi, didn't he?"

"Yes," was Raoul's reply.

She thought the tears would come now, but they did not. Not yet. Before long, she sank into the sound of horse hooves upon cobblestones, one of her hands clasped between Raoul's warm palms, and tried to ignore the glow of her white dress in the night.

* * *

Christine awoke to gentle prodding as Raoul slipped free of her head upon his shoulder. A footman opened her side of the carriage and offered her a hand to step free; she did so in a half-asleep daze, blinking in the light of a gas lamp held above her.

One-half of double doors were opened to them, and they stepped into an elaborate foyer. A young girl arrived to take their coats and seeing that they had none, stood to the side looking like she had just awoken. An older man also appeared, straightening his jacket as he approached them.

"Monsieur de Chagny, shall I wake your father?" he inquired. He also quickly coughed at the woman who then curtsied and moved to Christine's side.

"Yes, I should think so," Raoul said, stabbing his fingers through his blonde locks. "The whole affair at the opera turned into a mess, and I should speak with him before any police arrive. Some tea, too, is much needed. Perhaps ready the brandy as well."

"As you wish, sir." The butler waved a hand at the footman and maid, who both began to scurry off to do their duties.

Christine stepped over to Raoul and grasped his sleeve. "Please, Raoul, I am dreadfully tired and… these clothes." Tears threatened to well up, and she refused to let them fall just yet. Every part of her was weary, and her wobbly legs threatened to let her topple over. "Can this wait until morning?"

"Afraid not, my love. The quicker we act, the more likely the scoundrel might be caught, if he hasn't been already." He patted her hand. "Go and change, and have some tea in the meantime."

She pressed her lips together to still their trembling, and she nodded. The ladies maid appeared at her elbow, and she followed the girl upstairs to a spare bedroom.

The girl bustled about, first lighting a lamp near the door and then filling the basin with water. She paused, giving Christine a long once-over. "I'll find you a change of dress, mademoiselle."

Christine murmured a thank you. As soon as the door had closed, she began to unbutton the bodice herself, her fingers shaking a bit as she flicked the buttons. In her panicked haste to get dressed, she had skipped a button near the bottom which had created an odd pucker in the material. Suddenly, she needed to get the garment _off_. The last button slipped free, and she peeled the fabric back from her shoulders, tugging it almost violently from each of her arms.

She went over to the washbasin to scrub her face and arms. She felt sweaty from her multiple treks across the labyrinth beneath the Populaire. When she peered into the mirror above the basin, she almost gave a cry at her reflection – her stage makeup ran down her cheeks, and her eyes were bloodshot. It took several tries, but she finally scoured her face clean as well.

The maid reappeared with a lavender-colored frock, which Christine knew would look hideous on her, especially considering how red she had just made her skin. She wanted nothing more than to go to bed right now, but she could hear several male voices on the floor below, and she knew she would not be allowed rest until she cooperated.

She let the girl help her into the garment, waving away the bustle and offer of extra petticoats. She was already wearing two, which she knew was enough, and she hoped this would not take long anyway.

As she suspected, more members of the household had been awakened. A fire in the sitting room had been lit, and for a moment, she pondered just how much money a log of that size had cost in the middle of winter. Raoul sat in an armchair next to a man she assumed was his father – an older gentleman with thin but carefully combed hair and a walrus mustache the same shade as Raoul's honey blonde locks.

They both rose when she entered. Raoul set aside the brandy he had been sipping and took her hand, presenting her to his father. Pleasantries were exchanged; Christine had never met the man, despite their secret engagement. She didn't miss his father's thinned lips, nor the way his eyes roamed over her. How much longer would she have to play along tonight? She could deal with judgement much easier if she was well rested. It was not anything she hadn't suffered before.

Raoul and his father discussed what had happened, with Raoul filling in details about Christine and her involvement with the Phantom. How did Raoul's family not already know all of this? Hadn't he told them _anything_ about her?

A china cup was pressed into her hands by someone, she didn't notice who, and she was grateful to now have something to do. The hot liquid scorched her tongue but she did not mind; the warmth began to permeate throughout her frigid body.

Finally, after what seemed like ages, a bell rang in the foyer. Two police were ushered into the sitting room. They rose again, more pleasantries were exchanged, and Christine abided it all. Raoul knew everything that had happened – what was the point of her being here?

"Mademoiselle," one of the officers stated, leveling a stern gaze upon her. "We need to take your statement about tonight's events, if you please, from the beginning."

She repeated much the same of what Raoul had said. Even though she felt her lips move, her voice seemed too rough to be hers, too far away to be connected to her. She told them about her performance, about the moment she had suspected her partner on stage was not Ubaldo Piangi but the Phantom himself: when she had felt the mask upon his face. She had thrown back his hood to reveal him to the audience, and to see for herself that it was him.

When he had broken from the script of the opera and asked for her hand in marriage, she had reacted by revealing his deformed face to the audience. Why had she done such a thing while knowing of his instability? Christine replied that she had simply not known what else to do.

 _This was a lie._

He had dragged her to his home beneath the opera and made her change into the wedding gown. They had argued, exchanging harsh words, most of which she did not remember –

 _Again, another lie –_

And then Raoul had arrived. The Phantom had threatened to kill Raoul with his lasso, but when the mob started to grow closer, he decided to let them both go. She and Raoul had escaped. She did not mention the kiss to the police, and she had avoided Raoul's gaze when glossing over that detail. Admittedly, she was a bit surprised he did not interject to correct her. Perhaps there _were_ some things best left to the secrets of the crypt.

"Were you injured at all?" one of the men asked as he scratched upon his paper.

She showed him her neck where a few red marks still lingered. In the face of Raoul's purplish scratches, she hated to even mention them. "Here as well, but they were made, I believe, accidentally. They do not hurt." She also showed the red fingerprints along one of her wrists from where he had dragged her through the cellars.

"Is that all?"

Four pairs of eyes focused on her. What were they searching for? Yes, the Phantom had treated her roughly, but he had also been spurned by her, driven by his own despair and rage.

"Yes, that is all."

"Do you have any notion of where he might have fled?"

The question took her aback. The teacup tattled upon the saucer in her hand, and she set them upon her lap. "What do you mean? He- he was not captured?"

"Afraid not. The best we can estimate is that he made it into the catacombs, but we know not beyond that. We have hounds tracking him as we speak."

Her Maestro… not captured, not yet dead. Had she expected to hear to hear the worst tonight? When she had left him, he had been standing there among the wreckage of possibilities, tears coursing down his naked face.

"Do you have any idea where he might have gone?"

So he hadn't stayed there and simply waited for the mob to surround him. He had taken flight just after she had left his side. If her presence had not prompted him to rise from the floor, would he have ever found the will to flee?

"Christine?" Raoul called out to her. She had forgotten for a moment that he was in the room.

She made her lips move. "No, no idea."

Many lies she told that night, but that answer at least was true.

Finally, she was allowed to go to bed. Finally, she trudged upstairs and allowed the ladies maid to pull off that horrible lavender gown, which she would no doubt have to put back on tomorrow. An audible tsking came from her maid's mouth at the sight of her black corset and stockings, as well as the too-short petticoats edged in black lace.

"My costume, if that matters" Christine said, not caring if she sounded snappish. "Unlace my corset, and I can dress myself, _thank you_."

The girl did as asked, curtsied, and hurried from the room. Christine might find a hair in her tea in the morning, but she was too tired to worry about being polite. After what she had gone through tonight, what did it matter if she had manners to someone who couldn't be bothered to have them back?

"First, kindness." Her father's words drifted across her memory, and she winced. She would have to apologize tomorrow.

She tore off the rest of the Aminta costume, bundled the garments into a ball, and stuffed them into a corner of the room, not caring what happened to them. She changed into a plain white chemise left out for her and climbed into the bed.

She was asleep before she even realized her eyelids were closing.

* * *

Too soon, Christine heard rapping upon her bedroom door. Her eyelids peeled apart, and she pulled her hands from the warmth of the blankets to rub the crust from her eyelashes. She expected the ladies maid to come in and open the curtains, but they were already open. Had the other girl already been in here? What time was it anyway?

The door opened, and Christine watched with bleary eyes as the maid came in with a tray and removed one that was already there. Her body heavy and stiff, Christine sat up and smoothed down her wild hair.

"Afternoon tea, miss," the girl said when she returned. She laid a dressing gown upon the bed and proceeded to lay out an arrangement of underclothes.

Christine tried to speak and grimaced at the broken sounds that emerged. She cleared her throat and tried again. "What time is it?"

"Two o'clock. I have been asked to see that you are dressed. You have visitors."

Visitors? Christine swung her feet across to the edge of the bed, thanking the maid when she presented a pair of slippers and offered to help her into her robe. "I am sorry for my harsh words last night. I was tired, but that is no excuse."

The girl offered a wisp of a smile at that. "No matter, miss. My name is Annette, if you have need of me while you are here."

"Thank you, Annette." Christine sipped her tea while the girl brushed her hair. Annette tried to lift all of Christine's heavy brown curls upon her head, but Christine stilled her with a gentle hand, asking instead that only the front pieces be pinned up.

She ate two of the delicious lemon scones, and after that, she began to feel a bit more herself. The events of last night seemed like such a distant dream that she could almost pretend that they had never happened. She was here in Raoul's home as his fiancé and nothing more - not because she had fled the opera house in the dead of night, but simply because they were in love, and the move made sense.

Annette helped her into fresh underclothes, this time more suitable for daily wear rather than those of her Aminta costume. That blasted lavender dress waited for her again, but Christine didn't care. She was lucky to have anything to wear at all, especially considering she was having to borrow clothes from Raoul's sisters.

She could hear voices downstairs, speaking in hushed whispers. When she entered the parlor, Raoul sat in an armchair, his casual posture looking at ease. Across from him, on the couch, sat the Girys.

Meg squealed and jumped to her feet when she saw Christine, running over to envelop her in a fierce hug. Christine returned the embrace, thrilled to see her friend. Meg stepped back enough to grasp her hands and look her over.

"Christine! I am so relieved you're all right! As much as can be expected anyway. _Are_ you all right?"

Christine managed a tight smile. "Yes, of course." She peered over at the man who had risen but kept himself from also approaching her. "Raoul, I am so sorry if I worried you. I guess I was more tired than I thought."

He beamed white teeth at her, seeming way too cheery after everything that had happened. "No matter, my dear Christine. Come and join us. We were just speaking of fresh news."

Her heart constricted at that, but she leveled a steady gaze at Antoinette Giry, who sat straight-backed, cane in hand, upon the couch. A small, sensible hat sat perched upon her tightly-bound hair.

"I have something to say to Madame Giry first," Christine said.

The ballet instructor met her eyes evenly. "Go ahead, child."

 _Child! She could no longer be a child_.

"Madame, you have a lot of nerve showing your face here, in the home of the very man you almost sent to his death." She ignored Raoul's warning use of her name, and pressed onward. "You must know he would have not hurt me, but Raoul was very nearly killed!"

Antoinette's hand tightened around her cane. "How was I to know that? He had now murdered two people, including Ubaldo. He tried to send the new chandelier falling into the crowd, and only by the grace of God did the new supports hold. He had kidnapped you-"

"Again, he would not have hurt me!"

"How do you know that?"

Christine faltered a bit. She still held onto Meg's hands, and she was likely squeezing too tightly. She let go and pressed one fist to her chest. "I _know_."

Raoul stepped in, slipping an arm around her shoulders. "No matter now. What's done is done. Come now, Madame Giry brings us news from the police."

"The police?" She allowed herself to be led to another chair as Meg settled back at Antoinette's side. Christine didn't like the worry upon her friend's face, while Raoul's was stretched into an easy grin again. Dark purple bruises covered the underside of his jaw in contrast.

"Indeed," Antoinette said. "They have reason to believe _he_ is dead."

Christine's dread had been right. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap, and her lips parted in an "O-Oh?" She was aware of Meg's eyes searching her face, but she could do nothing but stare at the floor.

Raoul took up the story, almost gleeful. "Dogs tracked him to the Pont de la Concorde, and blood was found at the top of the bridge. Police believe he was injured when he jumped into the Seine. The bastard took the coward's way out – my apologies for my language," he added, and Antoinette pursued her lips at him. "At least he saved us the bother of needing to hang him."

Christine felt sick. Her Maestro had fled on foot through the underbelly of Paris, and taken his own life when there had been no hope of escape. She had every right to be celebrating with Raoul, but she could feel only a heavy knot beginning to develop within her stomach. If she didn't flee now, she feared losing her meager lunch in front of everybody.

 _Christine, I love you_.

Meg, sweet Meg, stood and pulled her to her feet. "Let us allow the grown-ups to talk further, shall we? In such a fancy house, I want to see your room! Will you show me?"

There wasn't much to show, but Christine nodded, grateful for an escape to escape. They climbed the stairs, and Christine dimly noticed that Meg carried one of Christine's own traveling bags with her. Inside the room, Meg shut the door behind them and set the bag on the chair near the vanity.

"Oh my dear friend, come and sit," Meg said, ushering Christine to the small divan in the room. "You went white as a sheet downstairs!"

That knot within Christine bubbled up into tears. "I can't bear to hear those awful words."

"About him?"

"Yes, _him_." Christine sniffed and rubbed away her tears while Meg stroked her hair. "I know I should hate him, I know I should, for all he has done. He has killed, I know that. He has terrorized me and the man I love. But, Meg, it is so difficult to explain what I am feeling. I can't in any way be glad that he is dead, and I know Raoul wanted me to be."

Meg passed her a handkerchief. "I can't pretend to understand, Christine. I am so, so sorry for not believing you soon about this Angel of Music you spoke of for so long. Maybe if I had, we could have prevented this whole mess."

"It is hardly your fault. I doubt I would have been able to believe myself. But he _was_ real, and for several years, he was my Maestro, who taught me how to sing." Christine wiped away a new flood of tears. "How can I hate him for that, despite what happened later?"

For a while, Meg continued to stroke the ends of her hair in silence. Then she hopped off the divan and walked over to the window, peering out across the small balcony to the courtyard. "I have something to share with you. Promise you won't tell Maman?"

"Promise," Christine said, though she didn't need to. They had always kept secrets between them.

Meg turned a bit to look to look at Christine, blonde hair falling over one shoulder, a familiar glint in her eyes. "Do you know I went down there, to his home?"

"Meghan Giry!"

"Hush now, don't you chide me! I went with the first police, before the mob got there. I was looking for _you_."

"That was dangerous of you, even with the police. Does Madame know?"

Meg scoffed. "Of course not. Anyway, the place was abandoned when we got there. You and Raoul had already gone, and the Phantom had fled. Have I have to admit, dear Christine, that I have started to understand a bit of what you found so fascinating about that underground place." She gave a sigh and came to sit back at Christine's side. " _Are_ you truly all right? You gave me a fright, sleeping the day away like this."

Christine shook her head. "No, I'm not all right."

"But you _will_ be?"

Christine looked at her friend's hopeful face. "I think so, with time." With Meg's blue eyes in such earnest, Christine could not bring herself to lie to her face. "Oh Meg, I truly don't know. I… I kissed him."

Meg went a bit pink across her cheeks at the same time she leaned in closer. "Who?" She gasped. " _Him?_ "

"Yes, him." She fiddled with the stiff fabric of her gown. "At first, I did it to save Raoul, my poor Raoul. I thought… if I could show him some kindness, he might learn how to return it. So I kissed him, and embraced him, and I- oh Meg, I kissed him again!"

It was the second kiss she could not explain, and so she buried her face in her hands and began to cry anew. She had not let herself recall the feel of his lips on hers. She struggled to push the memory of that stretched, dry, bloated skin on hers, and how instead of revulsion, she had felt something else entirely.

After a moment, Meg pried her hands away and wiped her face with a handkerchief. "We all do what we must," she said softly. "You have no reason to feel guilty. Christine, you have a fiancé who _loves_ you despite everything that has happened. But…"

She trailed off, hearing the thud of a familiar cane upon the floor. The Madame beckoned. Meg stood, giving Christine's hand a squeeze, and offered a strained smile.

"In any case, I brought some of your things over from the apartment. I hope I'm not making a mistake, but you should check to make sure I wrapped your scarf as carefully as I should have."

What an odd thing to say. "Meg-"

"We will get together again soon, promise?" And then the ballerina was gone, quickly brushing her way out the door.

Christine listened to the sounds of the two women leaving downstairs. The front door opened and closed. She heard Raoul pad up the stairs.

"Christine? Are you all right?"

So many times she had been asked that. She called back, "Only tired from the activity. I'm going to lay down for a while."

If he sighed or responded at all, she did not hear him. She closed the door to her room and made her way to her traveling bag. Inside the bag, she found Meg had indeed packed most of her small belongings, including her toiletries and favorite brush. One of her scarves was wrapped tightly around itself near the bottom.

She pulled out the bundle of fabric, noticing the unusual weight and stiffness. On her lap, she unwrapped the scarf, revealing a shining, bone-white mask.

* * *

 **This is new for me! Please let me know what you think. :)**


	2. These Memories that Haunt

**Wow, thank you so much for the warm response on the first chapter! Special thanks to Wheel of Fish. :)**

* * *

 **Chapter 2: These Memories**

The Phantom's mask stared up at her.

Christine remembered the first time she had seen it, the half face glowing in her mirror, almost taking her breath away. Had he known that she would see the whiteness of his mask before seeing the rest of him? Had that been his intention? As much as he had tried to hide the covering from her in the moments afterward, she did not believe so.

She had touched the mask three times before. Once, to remove it from his face. Once, to return it. And once, to take it from him once again. Each time, the biting coldness of the porcelain had startled her. Now, she lifted it again, feeling its slight weight in her palms, the smooth surface cool to the touch.

Her heart thudded within her chest. This could not have been the mask she had taken from him on the stage; that mask along with his wig had been lost somewhere along the catwalks, dropped from her hands in her daze.

Therefore, this was a duplicate mask that he had deliberately left behind… for someone to find? Why would he do such a thing?

Christine turned the mask over and ran her fingertip along the inside edge of the porcelain. That misshapen half of his face had once rested here against this hard surface. The strong bridge of his nose had filled this curve, and it did not seem possible that his stretched and deformed nostril could have breathed through this small hole. The bottom portion of the mask had curved away from his distended lips, but had the high cheekbone rubbed against his flesh? This could not have been at all comfortable to wear, and yet wear it he did with every effort to appear more dignified than he felt.

She raised the mask and held it to her own face. The porcelain was far too large for her, but she pressed it against her own cheek. Even she found the hole for her eye too small to keep from restricting her vision along the edges. It was like looking out from a box. The ceramic stayed frigid against her skin.

Suddenly, she felt as though she was suffocating. She wrenched the mask off her face and tossed it behind her onto the bed. She still could not breathe, still could not draw enough air into her lungs. She unbuttoned her bodice, popping the bottom button, and reached behind her back to fumble at her corset strings. They were partially covered by her petticoats, but she tugged them loose enough to widen the corset.

Finally, she could draw in air, and she did so in great gasps, her mind darting to the breathing lessons her Angel had taught her.

Only later, after her chest slowed in its rise and fall, did she realize her cheeks were wet.

* * *

It had been easy enough to leave a trail.

He had deliberately sliced his palm on a sharp bit of rock protruding from the tunnel wall and left smears like a beacon pointing in the direction he had fled. The trapdoor beneath his chair had given him a quick exit, but plenty of tunnels spilled into the same escape route. They had likely splashed along the path he had taken, may have even gathered some dogs, which were starting to be used to track down criminals.

Dogs used to track down a man like he was naught but an animal.

A familiar tune.

Criminal – he certainly was now. He had killed. He had pulled his piece of catgut around that fat throat and, in his _wanting, wanting_ so badly to charm her into being his, he had lost his mind in a haze and squeezed for too long. Buquet had been deliberate, begging to be killed with his snooping and assault of the ballet girls. When the stagehand had searched for him, he had retaliated.

But he himself had terrorized the single person he had ever cared about, and in doing so, he had become no better that Buquet. As much as he might want to lay blame at the feet of that blonde aristocrat, he had no one to blame but himself. By the time he had broken free of the blackness coloring his vision and felt her lips on his, he had known he had lost her forever.

And so he had fled down the tunnels that led to the river. When he had emerged at the edge of that black water, no one was strolling across the bridge in the drizzly night. Pausing only long enough to place his black-stoned ring upon his finger once again, lest he lose it, he had darted across, swiped his gashed hand in strategic places, and leapt over the edge.

The icy river had hit him like a thousand needles into his skin. He could hold his breath for several minutes, and did so, swimming with the current and letting it take him away. Her body had pressed in around him, so warm, so soft, her arms embracing him as though they had always belonged there. Her lips… her lips had brought him back into sharp focus, and twice – _twice!_ – she had kissed him. A kiss, more touch than he had ever been bestowed before, and it had cost him everything.

Once he pulled himself from the water, his trail lost to the dogs, he had hidden where he knew he would not be easily found. There, he would need to decide whether he had anything left to move him forward again, but for now, he could do little more than shiver in his damp clothes and clutch his bare head against the memories.

He had escaped the orphanage. He had escaped Persia. He had escaped the traveling prison that called itself a fair. For a ghost, vanishing was as simple as ceasing to exist.

* * *

Christine struggled through dinner with Raoul and his family. He sat at one end of the long, ornate table, his father at the other end. His brother, Philippe, was off doing business in London, but his wife and young son joined them, along with Raoul's two sisters. His mother, she knew, had passed away some years ago.

Christine had attended formal dinners before. Her father and his violin had been a favorite among many of the upper class, and often they had joined in as the evening's entertainment. Although they had rarely dined with the other guests, Christine had spent many a dinner watching the men and women in their stiff gowns and waistcoats as they barely ate course after course. Now, she herself sat at the table, and she could do little more that fork small bits of food into her mouth.

Sitting across one of Raoul's sisters, she felt woefully out of place. She wore a borrowed evening gown which was an inch too long. While Raoul had begun buying her a few dresses as presents after they had secretly gotten engaged, she had nothing appropriate for a dinner.

Earlier that day, her belongings from her apartment had been delivered – she had not even known they were being sent for. When she had spoken with Raoul about it, he had said she did not need her old apartment anymore, especially since they were to be married in only a matter of months. She had not argued because what could she say against such a remark?

Everyone at the table chatted gaily.

One day ago, she had been standing on a stage and singing with a man who had wanted her hand in marriage. A man who had terrorized her, threatened her -

 _loved her._

A man who had murdered two people and attempted to kill more than that, who had choked her, hurt her, tried to force her into marriage.

A man who had sung her to sleep after she had cried over her father. A man who had placed flowers on her father's grave on every anniversary since his passing. A man who praised her voice and given her hope for the future for the first time in a long time.

A man who had tried to kill Raoul.

A man who was only just a man but who had led her to believe otherwise. For two years, she had thought he was an _angel_. Dear God! Had she always been so _stupid_?

She did not realize her fork had clattered onto her plate until she felt eyes upon her. Looking up, she saw both Raoul and his oldest sister staring at her.

"My dear Christine," he said, breaking the silence with a bit of a forced chuckle. "Are you all right?"

"It slipped," she said. She quickly picked it back up, her face feeling hot.

"You have barely said anything all evening," his sister said, her French accent thick. "Does the food not agree with you? Or is it our company?" She laughed at her own joke, and likely did not mean to be unkind, but Christine remembered what her father had said about insults being cloaked.

Christine stared down at her plate. "I am sorry," she replied, voice sounding so small. "I am not feeling well." She made to rise, and a footman immediately came over and pulled her chair out for her.

Raoul and his father stood courteously. "Christine," Raoul said. "Let me escort you upstairs?"

She nodded. She murmured a good night to the rest of the family at the table and took the arm Raoul offered her. He felt strong and solid under her hand, but she could not shake the jumble of thoughts that preoccupied her mind. Of course not much time had passed since the events of last night; of course she should not be expected to shrug off what were truly traumatizing incidents.

They paused outside her room, and Raoul turned to face her, taking her hand in his. "May I kiss you?"

She had no right to deny him, engaged as they were, and maybe the embrace of the man she loved would help erase the feel of the man she… did not. She nodded.

His lips upon hers were soft and slightly wet, and as pleasant as she remembered. He kept the kiss chaste, almost polite, his lips moving against hers only slightly. She pressed against him a bit more, wanting more pressure, more contact. When she tried to open her mouth more and tilt her head in order to deepen the kiss, he pulled back.

His mouth was now wide in a roguish grin. "We are engaged _publicly_ now - can you believe it? Father is putting a notice in the paper as soon as next week, once that whole affair at the Populaire fades away." He brushed away a strand of her hair with the backs of his fingers. "And soon after that, we may marry."

Marriage. She waited for the butterflies she had felt the first time he had professed his love for her to rise within her again. The dread she had always felt at their engagement, at the thought of her Maestro discovering her betrayal, had created a solid weight upon her chest. Now, she _should_ feel only joy.

However, that was not what she felt.

Raoul kissed her forehead and bid her good night. Once safely inside her room, she leaned against the door, resting her head backwards against the wood. She touched her lips, still feeling the warmth of Raoul's upon hers. But her thoughts strayed once again to a different man's panting breath mingling with her own.

After dressing herself for so long, or having Meg help her, Christine had dismissed her ladies maid except to do her hair in the morning. After dressing for bed, she sat at her vanity to unpin the heavy weight of her tresses from atop her head, a style she had allowed the girl to do for dinner. As she ran a comb through her curls, she stared at her reflection in the mirror.

The red marks at her throat and wrist had now faded to a dark purple. She paused, taking in the sight of herself. The bruises along the side of her neck had been lighter and seemed to be healing quicker. The maid at done her best to cover these with powder, which Christine had now washed away. The marks around her right wrist were infinitely darker and more pronounced; she could see the faint shape of just how his fingers had held her.

The first time she had travelled to his underground home, she had gone willingly – eagerly, even. However, one night ago, his grip on her wrist had been the only thing keeping her following him. Had he known just how tightly he had squeezed her wrist? She had not even noticed the pain at the time, and so she doubted how much of anything he had noticed during his rampage.

She turned down the lamp and settled into bed. After a moment, she reached under the mattress and pulled out her traveling bag, finding the mask still hidden within her scarf.

In the low light, she traced the edges of the porcelain. Was he truly dead? She knew she should be glad he would no longer haunt her nights, but after several years of his constant presence, of his voice in the dark, of his strict lessons and strong, surreal presence… she now felt more alone than ever.

She needed to find the strength to move on.

However, the next morning, she found herself taking a stagecoach to the Tuileries Garden. She had worn one of her more usual dresses, a frock of dark blue that would help her move about the city as firmly second-class, not standing out either way. The crisp air of mid-morning chilled her, but she had dressed for a walk, donning her thick stockings, boots, woolen cloak, and knitted bonnet that her father told her once belonged to her mother.

She carried a small beaded handbag, the string of which draped around her mittened wrist. Inside, it held a bit of money and a parcel of baguette, cheese, and fruit for lunch later. Since Raoul's family declared they would stay to visit for a few days, she did not intend to go back until later in the afternoon. A bit of fresh air was exactly what she needed.

The Tuileries Garden was a common enough place for people to gather and stroll. Women did not often walk about alone, but she kept her head down and no one bothered her. The sun was attempting to shine between the gray clouds for the first time in days, and many seemed to be enjoying the brief respite from a rainy winter.

Christine wandered one of the tree groves for a while before turning and heading toward the Fontaine des Mers, which still spit almost freezing water this time of year. The Louvre loomed wide and sprawling at her right side, but she had no intention of going to the museum. She turned past the fountain and headed to the Pont de la Concorde, crossing the bridge halfway across the Seine before stopping.

The chilly wind was stronger here, blowing under her bonnet at her ears. She shuddered against the breeze and moved to the edge of the bridge, looking down at the murky water rushing below.

Why had he gone here during his escape? The gardens, the fountain – neither provided many hiding places. Perhaps he had exited from a tunnel somewhere nearby, and then… run to the top of the bridge only to jump? Her eyes scanned the edges of the bridge, seeking the stain of red the police had mentioned, but the earlier rain must have washed away any remaining traces of blood.

Her nose was numb, her skirts blowing about her legs. Suddenly, she did not understand why she was standing here on this bridge, looking at the spot where her Angel had jumped to his death. She shook her head, closing her eyes in pain. Where _a man_ , simply a man, had tried to escape the police after killing for a second time.

When tears rose up to seize her throat closed, she fled from the bridge. She could not stand to see the sight of that grotesque water any longer, could not let her thoughts wander to what plunging into those icy depths must have been like.

She needed to seek shelter, needed a moment to collect herself, so her feet walked to what became a habitual path towards a café near her apartment… her _former_ apartment. The knot within her stomach refused to fade. She ordered a cup of tea, which warmed her fingertips first and her body second, the hot liquid spreading throughout her veins. And then she sat.

How long she waited, she was not sure. An hour, maybe two. Finally, she caught sight of a familiar head of blonde hair heading out of the building across the street. Meg was leaving home and heading to her morning shop at the bakery several blocks away. Christine knew she would take her time buying two crumpets, a newspaper, and maybe a single sweet for later.

After Meg disappeared from view, Christine left the café, hurriedly crossing the road and entering the apartment building she herself had called home for years. She found the right door, which was on the floor below her own. She lifted a fist, hesitated, then rapped her knuckles upon the door.

Madame Giry called from within: "Who is there?"

"Christine."

A long pause, then the sound of the lock turning. The door opened enough for the older woman to peer out at Christine before widening to let her through. Madame Giry's graying hair was half-pinned, and she went back to fixing it as Christine entered.

"Meg left a moment ago."

"I know," Christine said quietly, shutting the door behind her.

Madame Giry gave her a shrewd look over her shoulder, then turned back to face her small mirror. Christine waited patiently for her to speak again, which she did as soon as she put her last pin in place.

"Your belongings were sent over yesterday."

"I know," she said again. Christine paused, then asked, "Did you send them?"

"Monsieur Vicomte asked for them."

Christine puzzled over this. Raoul had sent for them himself? Why had he not consulted her first before taking such a large step in their relationship?

"Was everything accounted for?" Madame Giry asked.

"Yes."

The other woman's lips thinned, and if she had her cane in hand, she probably would have tapped it forcefully against the floor. "Then why are you here? Surely not to berate me again for trying to keep you safe."

Christine felt the usual flush come to her face, her own embarrassment at being scolded by the harsh ballet mistress. However, she would not let herself be intimidated this time. "I came because I have questions I need answered."

To her surprise, Madame Giry nodded as though she had expected this. "Come and sit. I know Meghan loves coffee, but I much prefer tea."

Christine took her place in one of the stiff chairs near the stove, which was also the single source of heat in the room. While Madame Giry poured them both a cup, she took off her mittens and slid her bonnet off her head, laying both next to her. She had spent many a morning within these walls, on a schedule of late nights and later mornings filled with leg stretches and sore feet. While Madame Giry had not been her official guardian, she had been as close to one as needed for Christine after her father passed away.

Madame Giry handed her a steaming cup, which Christine took and blew on to cool. "So, child, you have questions? I cannot promise to have answers."

Christine waited until she was able to take a sip of the hot liquid, enjoying the sting as the tea warmed her throat. "I keep turning those events over and over in my mind. Of the night of _Don Juan_ , of every moment before then." She ran her tongue over her teeth, preparing her mouth for her next words. "Why did you, for this past year, allow him to contact me? I know very well that you knew of him for some time before."

Madame Giry lowered her own cup. "At first, his attention toward you seemed to come from a place of curiosity and innocence, and you were comforted by his presence. I remember the first time you smiled again after your father's death."

She swallowed past the lump that rose. "I remember." It had been after one of her early singing lessons, after the first compliment he had given her. Those times now seemed so… simple.

Madame Giry continued, "I had no idea his intentions had changed until he abducted you after _Hannibal_. I was shocked by his behavior, and it became clear to me that he had hidden any of his true thoughts about you from me."

"He did not kidnap me," Christine said, feeling the need to clarify. "I went willingly." That time, at least.

The older woman looked genuinely surprised, the lines in her forehead increasing as her eyebrows raised. However, she let the comment go, to Christine's relief. She was not ready to confront her own reasoning behind her actions just yet.

"I tried to protect you, child, I did. But you must understand that we had all begun to live in some sort of fear by then."

"Did he ever threaten you? Or Meg?"

"Meg? No, never." And Christine let out a relieved sigh. "As for myself," she continued, "I believe my past with him kept him from any sort of sinister behavior directed toward me."

"Your past?"

" _If_ he is still alive, he would never forgive me for telling you. But I will say this: we met at a traveling fair a few years before you arrived. He… he was being held there against his will. Because I showed him a bit of kindness during my visit to the fair, after he escaped, he found me at the Populaire. He has stayed ever since."

Christine's thoughts swirled about. She was not sure how she felt about these new details concerning her Maestro's life before her, how much he might have suffered. "I saw the newspaper this morning. He…" She stopped. She had no real name for him even though she had called him many things over the years. "Maestro… the police have declared him officially dead."

"They have." Madame Giry took a long sip of her tea. "Child, does Monsieur Vicomte know you are here?"

Christine shook her head. "He wouldn't understand. I know he is concerned for me and how I am doing, but… perhaps I am not ready to give up being able to move about the city when and how I wish."

"You have been without your father for three years, and during that time, you have taken care of yourself."

Christine's lips twitched. "Not entirely by myself," she said, acknowledging the Girys' role in her survival as an orphan.

"Still." And here Madame Giry frowned, leaning a bit forward. "A woman's duty is to bow to her husband's wishes. We, the unmarried sort of the theatre, live outside these types of rules, but once you make that sort of commitment, you must follow through or else break your marriage vows."

She tilted her head up a bit. "I am not married yet."

The older woman sat back. "No, you are not."

Christine moved on. Madame Giry could give all the unwanted advice she liked, but that was not why Christine was here. "I went to the river, to the spot where they say he drowned." She set aside her tea and fisted her hands in her skirts. "I cannot possibly believe he did so."

"Christine."

Christine cut her off. Her face felt hot, but she was done being polite. "Maestro was always one step ahead of us. Despite all the plotting against him during _Don Juan_ , he still shocked all of us by- by killing Monsieur Piangi and appearing on the stage with me. His home was a labyrinth of tunnels, and he was able to escape without any of the mob seeing him."

She didn't mention that she knew this because Meg had arrived first.

"No one saw him, Madame. No one laid eyes on him even as they tracked him to the Seine. Even with the blood on the top of the bridge, how does that prove he perished?"

She did not like the look that passed over the other woman's eyes. It was a look of… pity. And yet Madame Giry did not refute her. Instead, she sat silently, gazing at Christine as though waiting for her to go on.

Christine released the folds of her skirt and smoothed the dark blue fabric. "I must know for sure, either way. How can I move on with my life not knowing if he is alive or dead? How can I sleep at night without knowing for certain that I will never hear his voice in the dark again? Surely there is something more you know. He- he seemed to trust you more than anyone else."

Madame Giry still did not reply. For the longest time, she continued to examine Christine, her eyes roaming over her face as though she sought some sort of answer. Then, she let out the briefest of sighs and stood, moving to a small desk in the corner.

"Not more than anyone else." She picked up a pen, dipped it into a pot of ink, and wrote two lines upon a scrap of paper. "There is one other I know of, though I have never spoken to him directly."

She crossed back to Christine, holding the paper to her chest as though unsure whether or not to hand it over.

"Madame?"

"I urge you to be careful, my dear child. This path you are on… I fear where it might lead you."

"That is not your choice – it is mine." Christine stood, facing her former ballet instructor. She held out her hand and found it was not trembling. "Please."

Madame Giry pressed the paper into her palm.

* * *

 **As always, please feed the author. :)**


	3. The Persian

**Don't expect chapters to always come this quickly, but this one begged me to write it. :)**

* * *

 **Chapter 3: The Persian**

Christine had heard about the foreign-born visitor, but only in passing and casual mentions. She had never seen him at the opera, though she knew he frequented there from the murmurs of other dancers when they thought they had caught a glimpse of him. He was one of those eccentricities that exited when one was part of a theatre.

At the Populaire, he was known only as the Persian.

On the piece of paper, Madame Giry had written a name and address:

 **Nadir Khan**

 **324 Rue de Rivoli**

Rivoli was not far from the boarding house of the opera, and Christine could walk there in a matter of fifteen minutes. It did not escape her notice that this street was also near the place where her Maestro had supposedly leapt to his death, and in fact, she had walked parallel to it while strolling the Tuileries Gardens earlier that morning.

She did not head straight to Rivoli, instead wandering a bit of a casual path by crossing over to the gardens once again and pretending to study some of the statues there. Mostly, she was trying to gather her thoughts.

Before she had left, Madame Giry had told her what she knew about the Persian. Nadir Khan himself had given her his address some years ago, though she had never deigned to go to his apartment. That was one of the few times they had spoken, and although he had seemed a cheerful enough man, she knew his past with the Phantom was shrouded in mystery. The two men had met while in Persia itself, and when their Opera Ghost had needed to flee back to France, the foreigner had followed. They had parted for some time during the extent with the traveling fair, until Khan discovered him at the Populaire.

Christine believed Madame Giry had given her all the information she could, which made Christine a little nervous. She did not know this person, and going to a man's apartment unescorted was considered both dangerous and unthinkably taboo for a woman.

Her hand fluttered to her throat, but she no longer wore Raoul's engagement ring around her neck. He had tried to convince her to wear it around her finger, but when she had tried it on yesterday, it had not fit. How she wished she had more bravery to simply stride over to this man's apartment and knock upon the door like she had Madame Giry's.

Finally, she gathered her courage and made her way down the Rue de Rivoli, the gardens upon her right. She came to a bookstore called Librarie Galignani, an English-language bookstore, the only one of its kind, from which her father had once bought her a grammar book so she could learn a bit of the language. He liked to often travel to England, and to her delight, the two languages had been similar enough for her to pick it up easily.

Her Maestro had insisted she start to learn Italian - not only how to pronounce it correctly while she sang, but also to understand the words so she could add the proper emotion during her performance. She remembered doing her best to mimic the way the words rolled off his tongue, his voice smooth and emerging from the darkness beyond where she could see him.

She closed her eyes against the memories, adjusted her bag along her covered wrist, and opened one of the wooden doors to the right of the bookstore to reveal a set of stairs. Picking up the front of her skirts, she began to climb the two flights until she reached the third floor. Her nerves had settled a bit when she saw this building was quite nice and well-traveled. Somewhere, she could hear children laughing.

She reached 324, and before she could hesitate, she knocked.

"A moment!" called a deep voice with a more than a hint of an accent.

Straightening her spine, she prepared herself for the door to open. With the snap of a lock, it did, revealing a light brown-skinned man with salt and pepper hair, a thick beard adorning his strong jaw. His dark eyes went round with recognition, and at once she realized that he knew who she was.

He jerked backward at the same moment she stepped into the space of the doorframe, her foot preventing the door from closing. Catching the door just in time to avoid crushing her foot, he backpedaled, raising a warning hand. "You should not be here."

"I only want a moment of your time," she said, not stepping back. "Please give me the courtesy of that, Monsieur Khan."

His eyes were still wide, but he quickly opened the door and urged her inside. She glanced around the modest apartment, which was decorated with a combination of French accents and Persian comforts. He had a small fire going in the hearth, which showed his government pension must be comfortable enough. He was dressed in Western garb, a rather drab brown suit with a brown waistcoat and shorter jacket.

"Thank you," she said politely.

He shook his head, running a broad palm over his face. "If the police discover you have been here… but no matter, here you are. There is nothing to be done. I admit, you are the last person I expected to see, Miss Daaé."

"I apologize if I have put you in a precarious situation, monsieur, but I fear I have little choice."

"In that I must disagree. We always have a choice." He did not offer her refreshment or a place to sit, and it was obvious that he wanted her to leave immediately.

"Perhaps you are right." She stared down at her boots, feeling suddenly imprudent. Here she was intruding upon this man who did not want her here. Madame Giry had not wanted her probing questions, and if Raoul knew what she was doing, he would be devastated by her refusal to let this go.

"Please… _please_." She could push no other words beyond her closed throat. She stood there in her full winter garb, her boots leaving wet prints on his carpet, and despite her best effort to keep them at bay, tears began to well within her eyes. This only increased her humiliation, and she covered her face with her gloves, beginning to fully cry.

The Persian clicked his tongue in a soft sigh. Something nudged her elbow, and she glanced down to see a handkerchief. She took it and dried her face, continuing to dab at her eyes as more tears fell.

"You must think me very ridiculous, Monsieur Khan."

"On the contrary." She dared a glance at him and found that his dark brown eyes had softened. "I find you quite brave. Though I am afraid I have little to offer you, whether you come in search of comfort or answers."

She cleared her throat and handed him back his handkerchief. "Antoinette Giry gave me your address. She said you knew the P-Phantom."

A look crossed his bearded face. "Ah, what a name he made for himself, yes? No better than Opera Ghost, I suppose. He has always had a special kind of fondness for the dramatic."

"I was never given his real name," she said, feeling the need to explain.

"Nor will you get one from me. He valued his privacy more than anything, and I shall continue to respect his wishes." He gestured at a divan near his modest fire. "Might as well sit while we chat. The police were here earlier this morning, so let us hope they will not return today."

"Why did they come here?"

He shrugged, the shoulders of his brown suit bunching a bit. "Someone must have told them I have been snooping about the Populaire. It would not be a lie."

She clasped her hands in her lap, keeping on her gloves and hat. She did not want to appear that she intended to stay a long time. "Madame Giry told me you knew him better than she did, and considering how much contact she had with him, I thought you might be able to able to-"

"To _what_ , Miss Daaé?" She drew back by his suddenly harsh tone, but he continued, biting out his words. "As I understand things, the Ghost did his best to destroy your life, and now he is dead. What more could you possibly want?"

"T-to know for sure whether or not he _is_ dead!" she choked out. "No b-body has been found. He has done this before – disappeared for months only to reappear again. I desperately need to know for certain before I can move on with my life!"

He puffed a sigh and stood, beginning to pace the room. Despite his obvious irritation, she did not feel threatened by him. He muttered something under his breath that she could not understand, then turned back to her. "I came to this country to track him down again and found he was doing his best to avoid me. Now I see why. Believe me when I say, Miss Daaé, that my anger is directed not at you but at _him_."

"Were you not friends?"

"Friends!" He barked a sharp laugh. "He would never have used the term." Nadir crossed to a small table tucked in the other side of the room. It was covered in stacks of papers, some of which she recognized as maps. He stared at them for a long moment before sweeping them off with a jerk of his arm. Christine flinched but did not move from her spot on the divan, watching him take a small map and rip it into several pieces.

Finally, she said quietly, "Do _you_ think he is dead?"

Back to her, he braced himself against the table, shoulders hunched. For a moment, she worried that he himself was crying. But then he spoke, voice rough. "He and I have been through tough times together and come out the other side with our lives. I do not believe he would have drowned in that river even despite an injury and the winter chill."

Her hands tightened around each other, her only sign of sudden tension. "Where would he have gone?"

"That I do not know." He gestured at the mess on the floor. "I have tried to figure out where he might be hiding, but there is only so much I can do by staring at a map. The police have been watching my every move, perhaps to see if he magically appears here. I fear they might follow me." He looked over his shoulder at her, his gaze mildly withering. "You can probably deduce why."

She could. He was obviously foreign-born, from his accent to his appearance to the odd hat upon his head. "I went to the river, but beyond that, I do not know where to look."

His eyebrows raised. He turned back around and put up his hands. "I must insist that you stop this at once, Miss Daaé. _If_ he is still alive, he is hiding nowhere that would be safe for you to venture."

She was so tired of others telling her what she could and could not do. When her father had been alive, traveling had been their bread and butter, and meeting people had been how they had thrived. She might have lived a somewhat sheltered life under his wing, but she was not ignorant of the ways of the world.

Holding herself stiffly lest she fall apart, she said, "I _will_ continue this."

"Allah give me patience," he muttered. He sat heavily in a nearby chair. For a moment, she felt pity for the Persian, who seemed to have to often deal with this kind of commotion. When he met her gaze again, she saw a bit of sparkle in his eyes, his lips curling in a hint of a smile. "I can see why he chose you, if you often tilted your chin up at him like that."

She felt her cheeks grow hot, but she did not look away. She would not back down, would not be treated like a child again.

Sighing again, he bent down and rummaged in the pile of papers at his feet. Finding a small folded sheet, he held it up between two fingers. "I have not seen him in person since we parted ways after Persia. However, I do receive correspondence from him occasionally. Usually, the letters are berating me for my attempts to locate him. Oftentimes, he sends me snippets of some sort of opera. I received this note a week ago."

He handed it to her, and she opened the letter. The short text was written in her Maestro's slanted script, which she recognized immediately. She glanced down at the letter, then up at Nadir.

"Would not keeping such letters incriminate yourself?" she asked.

The Persian shrugged. "Fifteen years as police chief of Mazandaran must have taught me something useful."

She suddenly had more questions than answers, such as how the two men could have possibly met, but she decided to let it go and focused on the letter.

It read:

"Moon, high and deep in the sky, your light sees far.

You travel around the wide world and see into human dwellings.

Oh, moon, stand still a while and tell me where is my dear.

Tell him, silvery moon, that I am embracing him.

For at least momentarily let him recall of dreaming of me.

Illuminate him far away and tell him, tell him who is waiting for him.

If his human soul is in fact dreaming of me, may the memory awaken him.

Oh, moon, don't disappear."

When she finished and refolded the paper, Nadir waved a hand. "As you can see, he has always been prone to quoting opera. At least, I assume that is from an opera as it is not one I recall. This is the last correspondence I received from him."

Christine knew the quotation. In fact, she could recite it by heart. During her singing instruction, her Maestro had insisted she sing a variety of arias from around the world. He had corrected her pronunciation of Italian, German, Czech, and Russian. Even the most obscure opera could have merit, he had said, and so he had exposed her to not only the classics, but any opera that struck his fancy that week.

This quote came from one opera that Christine herself had asked to sing. She did not often make requests of him, but her father had hummed bars of "Song to the Moon" enough for her to want to try. The Czech had twisted her tongue, but she had been fascinated by the translation of a moon that shown above everyone, even when they were apart.

"Rusalka," she said softly. "It is a Czech opera, not well known, about a water sprite who falls in love with a human man." She wished she was not wearing gloves so she could feel the paper between her fingers. "Tell me, Monsieur Khan, does this quotation mean anything to you?"

He shook his head and scratched at his beard in irritation. "My knowledge of opera is quite less so than our mutual acquaintance's. You are familiar?"

"I am. _Rusalka_ is one of my favorite operas, specifically because of this aria. I… I have always visited my father's grave during the full moon, when the sky is clear." She hesitated, the knot that was quickly becoming familiar growing once again in her belly. Her fingers gripped the paper tightly. "The light comforts me and reminds me of him. In _Rusalka_ , the water sprite sings to the moon in the hopes that it will pass along her feelings."

She swallowed heavily. "Monsieur Khan, I fear I have overstayed my welcome. I really must be going."

Instead of ushering her out the door – hadn't he wanted her gone anyway? – Nadir stepped in her way. The move startled her, but he held his hands up in a placating gesture. "The note means something to you, doesn't it?"

"What does it matter?" Christine tried to side-step him, but he planted himself firmly in her path. "Please let me leave." She hated the slight panic that tinged her voice. She needed to get out of this room; she needed fresh air.

"If you have an idea of where he might be, you need to tell me."

"Who sent you this note, Monsieur? _Was_ it him?"

"I do not know for certain," he admitted, puffing another sigh. "Certainly, he wrote it, but I have no idea who delivered it."

Her thoughts swirled in turmoil. The quotation meant _everything_ to her. Had Madame Giry given the note to Nadir instead of to her, in her first act of defiance against her benefactor? Or had her Maestro indeed meant it for the Persian in case she might someday meet him? If Christine had read these words a week ago, she would have thought he was trying to profess his feelings. Now, she saw it as a beacon showing her where he might have gone.

Nadir grasped her upper arms, his grip strong but not meant to harm her. He shook her a bit to call her attention back to him. Despite his forceful touch, she did not feel threatened. "Tell me, child, if you know where he is!"

"I do not know!" She shrugged him off in a wrench of her arms, her small bag swinging against her wrist. "And even if I did, what could you possibly do?"

He slumped at that. She saw him as he was for a moment – an old man who had been chasing a ghost as much as anyone else had. "Damn you," she heard him curse under his breath, and she knew he did not mean her.

After a long pause of silence, Nadir spoke again. "What will you do now?"

She stared down at the note she still held tightly in her fists. "I do not know."

He nodded as if he had expected that answer. Then, he turned and strode from the room, disappearing into what must have been a back bedroom. When he returned, he held a gun, the golden finish glinting as he pointed it.

She flinched before she realized he was holding the handle out to her. Meeting his warm brown eyes, she saw only kindness and concern there, and a touch of infinite sadness.

"Whatever you decide, Miss Daaé, at least keep yourself safe." He turned the weapon over, showing her how to pull back the hammer, where to put her finger, where to place the cartridge, and how to aim.

"I-I cannot take your gun," she said, feeling breathless.

"Nonsense." He palmed five bullets and without asking for her permission, tucked them into the bag at her wrist. Then he examined her. "Show me you at least know how to hold it."

She found she could not refuse. She pulled off her gloves, setting them aside, and grasped the smooth handle. Since she had never seen a pistol with this degree of detail before, she guessed it had not been made in France. The curved brass handle was inlaid with turquoise stones. The weight of it startled her. He patiently adjusted her grip and stance, and nodded once he was satisfied by how she cocked the hammer.

"I am afraid this will not fit in your parcel," he stated, eyes roaming over her. "May I give a suggestion?" She nodded, and in a rather matter-of-fact way, he pushed aside her heavy cloak and pointed at her hip. "Here would be a good place to tuck it away. Your skirts will hide it, and it will not interfere with sitting down."

Turning away for a bit of propriety in such a discomforting situation, Christine lifted her bodice and slid the pistol into the waistband of her skirt. With the cloak in place, and the curve of her bustle, no one could tell the weapon was hidden there. She also placed her Maestro's last note into her bag, covering the cartridges.

As they both walked to the door for her to leave, she turned back to him for a moment. "I wish I knew what was the right path."

"Marry that Vicomte of yours and move on with your life." He paused with his hand on the doorknob. "However, I do not presume to know you. What I do know is this: you risk everything by going down this path. He is dangerous and brilliant, and I fear his moment of redemption has passed. It is a difficult thing to come back from murder."

After he glanced into the hall to make sure it was empty, he moved aside for her. She bowed her head in thanks and headed back into the crisp daylight. The skies had become gray again during her time with the Persian. More winter rain was likely coming.

Nadir Khan had said she risked everything, but Christine already knew what it was like to have everything she held dear threatened. This moment felt… different.

She made her way back to the Le Marais district. It was past luncheon, and she had forgotten to eat the picnic she had packed. Her feet ached, and her cheeks felt chapped from the chilly air. By the time the butler opened the door for her, she was hungry, thirsty, and exhausted from the events of the day.

"I will tell the Vicomte you have returned," the butler stated and swept away before she could say anything.

She started to untie her cloak when she remembered the gun resting at her side. "I-I will be right back!" she called to no one in particular and dashed up the stairs to her bedroom.

Shutting her door, she took off her cloak and tossed it across her bed. Then she carefully removed the gun, which she knew was unloaded anyway, and hid it within the large traveling bag under her bed, nestled next to the mask.

A knock sounded upon the door, sending her heart racing. She quickly placed her wrist purse with the rest, and she slid the bag back under her bed and called for whoever it was to come in as she began to remove her bonnet.

Raoul entered, flashing white teeth. "I heard you were back. Was your day at the park everything you wanted?"

"It was," she said, hoping her returned smile did not look forced. "Many people were out enjoying the sunshine. I wish you could have joined me."

"As do I." He stepped toward her, leaving the door open, and took her into his arms. She leaned against him. "Christine, I know things have been rough. We have been through a lot, and I know I have been neglecting you." He squeezed her, then took her face in his warm hands, running his thumbs across her cheekbones. "I love you so much. I can't wait to marry you." And he bent and kissed her.

She fell into his kiss, raising on her tiptoes to wrap her arms around his neck. She pressed herself against him more fully, relishing the feel of his solid chest against her own soft curves. Her hands on the back of his neck drew him closer, and he responded, curling strong arms around her waist. She wanted _more_. She tilted her head to the side, slanting her mouth across his, tugging a groan from between his lips. Tentatively, she dipped her tongue to touch his own.

He jerked back, releasing her. His face was flushed, the hair at the back of his neck tousled from her fingers. "Enough, Christine."

She murmured an apology, embarrassment causing her to draw back further.

He gave a rough laugh. "Let us spend more time together tomorrow. I could arrange a tour of the Louvre for us."

"That sounds nice."

"For now," he said, fondly cupping her chin with his fingertips. "Duty calls. I must meet my father over at the office. I need to learn how to seal an investment deal if I ever hope to be given part of the company once we are wed."

She gave a strained smile in return. More time to herself meant more time to her thoughts, a dangerous game she was beginning to play. She needed distraction, not the space to let her jumbled emotions overwhelm her.

Raoul's sisters invited her out for tea and shopping during the afternoon, but she could not bear the idea of having to chat with these ladies about nothing. She was not sure she trusted them yet to avoid any subjects pertaining to the Populaire, and she could not trust herself to speak of her past life calmly.

By the time dinner came around, she realized only two days had passed since she had sung _that_ song upon the stage with _that_ man pleading for her hand in marriage. The span of time felt like an eternity. When the family gathered in the sitting room to discuss weather and business and people they knew, Christine could not take it anymore. She excused herself and barely made it to her room before the tears fell.

She had cried too much these past two days. The space around her eyes felt heavy and swollen, and the back of her neck ached with tension. She took off the bodice of her evening dress, loosened the strings of her petticoats, and unlaced her corset enough to breathe freely before stretching out across her bed. The presence of the gun and mask beneath her loomed heavily in the room.

She took out the note Khan had given her and gazed at the sloped handwriting through blurry eyes. When he had written this, had he know she would see it? Had he known what he had planned to do – to Piangi, to _her_ – the night of _Don Juan_?

Before, before all of it, before she had known him as a man, when she had still thought him an Angel, she had told him about the tune her father used to sing. It had been a wistful moment between lessons, when she had been recovering from a cold and unable to sing, and he had come to her anyway. If she had been less naïve, less trusting, she would have realized why. But nonetheless, she had been half-delirious with remnants of a fever, and so she had told him how much she loved the moon.

The moon, she had said, followed you wherever you went. The moon, unlike life, was constant. It was the same shape her father had seen when he had married her mother; the same round glow that had highlighted the ground when she and her father had stepped foot in France; the same light she sought each time she visited his grave.

She had only known a little of "Song to the Moon," but when her Angel had taken up the tune and sung it to her in full, she had fallen in love with the moon even more. It had been the first time he had sung to her the full length of an aria, and the first time she had thought of the disembodied voice as more than just her tutor. She had seen him as a source of comfort during a time when she'd had little.

Rubbing the parchment between her fingers, she felt the richness of the paper. Holding it to her face, she could breathe in the smell of the ink, the lingering scent of ash and dampness and something else entirely.

She could not go on like this.

So she lay listening to the bustle of the household, the laughter that ensued when wine was passed around. And when the household had finally long since quieted for the night, she dressed in her darkest clothes and slipped out the servant's hall. In her satchel, she carried the small picnic, which she had not eaten the previous day, as well as a canteen of water. Into her waistband, she tucked the gun beneath her bodice, one cartridge loaded. In her arms, she carried a heavy woolen blanket pulled from her bed. The ride would take at least half an hour, and the weather had turned cold again.

She walked a few blocks to a busier Parisian street and hailed a stagecoach.

* * *

The first night had been warm, warmer than usual for the middle of February. While the frigid waters of the Seine had seeped into his bones, he had mostly dried to an uncomfortable dampness as he moved on shaky but determined legs to the cemetery. His feet had squelched within his black shoes, echoing across the stone, but he ignored the numbness, welcomed it even.

It had been easy to slip back into the tunnels on the other side of the river. Easier still to find the path with which he was already familiar and follow it to one of the many mausoleums within this graveyard. He exited the sewer in one catacomb but quickly chose another, a different, older crypt that had seen little visitors judging from the dust and creeping vines. He stayed far from her father's grave with the statue of the angel watching over him.

Perhaps he had made a rash decision in his foolishness to come here. This place was laden with memories of the last time he had seen her before they had met on the stage for their duet. The moon had been full and high, and the sky clear, which is why he had followed her, knowing where she would venture. In one last desperate attempt, he had tried his best to lure her to him with voice and memory of what they shared.

It had almost worked. Until the wretched boy had shown up.

What had he done next? Indeed, he had vented his anger by tossing small, mostly harmless fire bombs at them, a desperate move to separate the two of them so that he might rush in to claim her again. But instead, they had clung to each other and fled.

Her shrieks of fear still echoed in his head.

Here he was yet again, in this abandoned cemetery, a ghost among the dead.

He could not stay here long. The moon was waning, and tonight, covered with increasingly gray clouds that stretched across the surface of the sky. Eventually, she would come here, and he needed to be gone long before then.

The first night passed with only his harsh breathing to give him company, and yet no one had followed him here. During the day, he had slipped further into the catacombs to avoid visitors to the cemetery, but no one ventured close to his tomb. The next night turned colder, and his shirtsleeves did little to protect him from the chill of night, which was not quite cold enough to turn his breath into little white wisps. He had drunk the morning dew from any statue with a surface to collect it, but he would have to move from here or else die from thirst.

The next night, he curled into the back of the crypt, sitting upon the stone bench left there for mourners. Coffins lined the walls, hidden behind marble covers displaying the names of the dead. He had chosen this one for its shelter from the wind and the high gate that covered the entrance. He sat here now, his back curled, elbows resting on his thighs.

And that was when he heard the footsteps.

The slightly slide-tap of boots on the stone path caught his ears. He froze, attuning his attention to those footsteps, which periodically stopped and started as though the intruder was venturing from one headstone to another. Sometimes he heard the crunch of leaves and then the creak of a gate or door opening and closing.

This person was checking within the crypts.

Not just a person – he knew it was a woman based on the lighter tread and narrower pace of the footfalls. And she was coming closer to his own hidden alcove, from which he had no exit except the main gate. He cursed his own decision to come here, but the hovels that led underground were colder.

She moved closer still, and for a moment, the glow of a lantern flashed across the space along the bottom of the door. His hand slid inside his right pocket to clasp the piece of catgut he kept there. Would he once again be forced to kill in order to save himself? And this time a woman? Could he stop her screams without harming her and still give himself time to escape? Perhaps he could pretend to be only a visitor himself.

For a moment, he held his breath, unmoving, while the light drifted away. But then one of the double doors began to open, pushed heavily inward. A hand encased in a short, three-button glove appeared, the wrist delicate, holding out a lantern. He spun immediately from the light, keeping the right side of his face carefully in shadow. He could do nothing to hide the bald sparseness of his hair. His hand remained in his pocket, but he was ready.

He recognized who she was before she noticed him. He knew every detail of her wrist and the fine bones there, the set of her elbow, the curl of dark brown hair spilling over one arm. Her other hand pushed the door open further, revealing a dark blue, almost black sleeve and folds of her skirt dirty along the bottom edge. He knew that curve of hip and bodice, that white column of throat at which her cloak was tied. Her lips were pale from the cold, and red spots tinged high upon her cheekbones. Her nose was red and running. Her eyes, blue and bright in the lamplight, betrayed her exhaustion.

She had never looked more beautiful.

She raised the lantern, bringing the light upward to fall across his presence in the back of the small room. Her body went rigid, and her face changed as soon as she saw him, belaying her surge of emotion. As much time as he had spent studying her face and learning its details, he did not understand what he saw there.

He tried not to squint in the sudden light. He did not move. His throat bobbed until he found his voice, and he forced her name through parched lips.

"Chris… tine."

Her own lips parted, her eyes swallowing the rest of her face. She stood, frozen, for two of his own drawn breaths.

And then she fled.


	4. And They Meet

**Thank you to all who review! I love reading your thoughts. I now have most of the rest of the fic mapped out, and I expect it to be long. I hope you're ready for quite a trip. :)**

* * *

 **Chapter Four: And They Meet**

Christine ran, her skirts flying out behind her, her cloak billowing. When her petticoats caught on her legs and tried to slow her down, she grabbed the heavy hem in her fist and kept going, dropping the lantern to the ground. A single gaslight at the entrance to the cemetery illuminated her path, and she stumbled in the near darkness, caught her feet, and bolted down the sidewalk.

Oh, to hear her name upon those lips once again. Not with the usual silky slide of his baritone, but in _his_ voice nonetheless. She was at once a girl hearing him call her name as she wept for her father in her dressing room, and a woman being beckoned by him to follow her beyond her mirror.

She expected to hear his feet upon the stone as he bounded after her, expected to hear his shouts for her to stop. Her blood pounded in her hears, her heart racing. At any moment, he might descend upon her, his iron grip encasing her wrist to drag her back. She saw shadows in her peripheral vision and bit back a cry, thinking he had come for her.

And yet he did not.

The stagecoach loomed where she had left it a block away, and the driver hopped down to open the carriage for her when she approached. She slid gratefully inside and spun around to look out the back window. The street behind them was empty.

Had she imagined him? But no, he had sat there inside that small building, his white shirt dirty but bright against the darkness, his knees bent. He had not moved except to say her name. His eyes had widened slightly as they had alighted upon her.

"Ready?" the driver asked. The horse paced, rolling the carriage forward a few feet.

She had sought out her Maestro, and she had found him. She had not considered what she would do after that.

"Not yet," she told the driver, feeling herself beginning to shake. She needed to calm herself. If she wanted, she could go immediately to the police and tell them where the Phantom lay in hiding. If she wanted, she could ensure that she never saw him again, in one way or another. At her hip, the Persian's gun rested with insinuation.

"I was chilled," she said to the driver, grasping the blanket. "Can you wait another moment?"

"As long as you can pay."

She assured him she could and gave him a small coin as proof. He helped her from the stagecoach again as she pulled the knitted throw with her, and she began the slow trek back to the cemetery.

Her heart continued to pound as she walked up the path, turning to head once again among the tombstones and mausoleums until she reached the lantern she had dropped. It lay on its side, but the wick had not gone out, nor had the glass broken. She wrapped the blanket over her arm and picked up the lantern once again, holding it in front of her as she approached the crypt.

She saw that the door still stood ajar, and again, she tried to clear her head from any thoughts that she had imagined the man inside. Holding her breath as she approached, she paused at the door, keeping the lantern low this time so as not to blind him if he was still there, the back of the crypt still in shadow.

"M-Maestro?" she whispered.

She heard a sharp intake of breath, and then an answer, soft but still with that rasp.

"Indeed."

Taking a step closer, she edged back inside the doorway until the glow covered his form once again. She did not miss that he turned the right side of his face away from her and guessed that he did not have a mask. His head was also without his wig, the thin wisps of his natural hair slicked against his mostly bald scalp. His left eye, the pupil tiny in the harsh light, stared unwaveringly at her, the dark brown catching the gold from the flame.

He straddled a low stone bench, one leg to either side, his hands splayed across each of his thighs as though showing her they were empty. His black-stoned ring, the one he had once forced upon her own finger, adorned his left pinky. A strip of cloth wound around the palm of that hand. He was dressed only in his shirtsleeves and black waistcoat. His coat was missing, and his black bowtie hung loosely about his neck.

"You," he said and stopped when the word cracked apart. His lips pressed together, and she could tell he was attempting to wet the inside of his mouth. "You returned," he tried again, this time clearer.

What could she say to that? She had no clear idea of what she was doing here, and so she replied, "You did not follow me."

His head tilted slightly at that, the other half of his face still hidden. "I let you go," he said simply.

Yes, he had; in the depths of his lair, he had let her go. Did that mean he would not try to stop her whenever she wanted to leave? It was only after he had released her that he had spoken the words that still echoed within her head.

 _Christine, I love you_.

Emboldened, she stepped a few paces closer and set the lantern down, conscious of the way his eyes tracked her movements. "The gendarmerie believe you are dead."

"But you did not?"

She shook her head. "It seemed an easy death, for you to drown in the river." She gestured at his hand. "I see where the blood came from."

"Christine," he said again, and there it was, the crisp slide to his voice that she remembered. Was he even cognizant of the way he said her name? There was also a warning note to it, as though he were barely holding himself together in her presence. He tried to speak again, but the sound caught in his throat and he coughed, turning away from her. The taut muscles of his back pulled at his waistcoat as he struggled to calm his hoarse coughs.

He had been out here for two days, in the cold and damp. By all rights, she should leave him to his misery. Instead, she eased the blanket down to the ground and opened her satchel, pulling out the canteen of water. Without a word, she handed it to him, clearing her throat to gain his attention.

Their fingers did not touch when he took it. He put his back to her again before he uncapped the canteen and drank deeply. She thought of his lips pressed against the top of the bottle and shivered. He seemed to be taking extra measures to keep her from seeing his deformities, and she realized she had never seen him eat or drink before.

After taking another small sip, he offered the canteen back to her, but she shook her head. "Keep it, please." When he did not reply, but set it down on the bench next to him, she resisted the urge to nervously clench her fists into her skirt. "Why did you come here?"

"To your father's graveyard, you mean?" The water had cleared his throat, and now his voice had returned to its usual velvetiness, his indiscernible accent mild but noticeable. "I needed a place to hide, and the catacombs run here, of course."

She took his note out of her satchel, unfolding it so he could see his own handwriting upon the paper. His singular exposed eyebrow raised as he glanced down before darting his gaze back to her face.

"You went to the Daroga," he stated.

"Is that what you call him? The Persian?" She noticed that his hands had clenched slightly into his thighs, the black-stoned ring upon his finger glinting in the glow of the lamp.

A muscle in his jaw tensed. "It is. I shall have to reevaluate my relationship with him if he is the one who sent you here in the middle of the night."

She placed the paper back into her bag. "He did no such thing. In fact, he warned me against coming here." Why was she bothering with defending Nadir Khan, a man she did not know? But she felt the need to clarify what had brought her here, especially when she barely understood her own actions. She had wanted to know if he was dead or alive, and now that she had found him, she did not know what she should do next.

"Is that why you have armed yourself?"

His casual mention of her gun startled her and send her heart to racing again. How had he noticed it, hidden as it was at her hip? Her cloak curved around her waist and covered her shoulders. He should not have been able to tell she had a weapon tucked into her waistband.

She swallowed. "I-It is. He gave it to me."

Instead of growing angry at her suggestion that even Khan had thought him dangerous, he slumped upon his elbows, turning his face completely away from her for a moment. Not knowing what to do, she stood there, waiting. Finally, he spoke, raggedly, "Do you know how to use it?"

That took her aback. "I-I think so?" she stammered.

"Show me."

She did not like the direction this was going, but she was unsure what he would do if she refused. So she pulled the pistol from under her bodice and presented the weapon as he turned around on the bench to face her fully, both feet on this side of the stone. He pressed one hand against the right side of his face, hiding most of the irregular structure from her view.

Remembering what Nadir had taught her in that brief moment, she started to arrange her hands around the handle, keeping the barrel pointed carefully away from him. For a few quiet minutes, he adjusted her grip upon the pistol with soft words of instruction, watching as she cocked the hammer and released it several times.

Only when he seemed satisfied did he murmur, "Good," and she flushed at the compliment. Then he said, "Your gloves, madame, for precision."

She sucked in a breath. "I am not yet married," she said, the word "yet" hanging in the air between them.

If he was irritated by that, he only showed it in the flexing of his fingers and clenching of his jaw. "If ever possible, remove your right glove, _mademoiselle_ , to increase your ability to feel the trigger. Let me see how you place your finger."

She stood unable to figure out what to do. Was he serious about showing her this? Could she refuse? And even so, what could she do with the gun to remove her glove apart from tucking it back into her skirt? Thinking on her feet, she moved the gun to her left hand and sank her teeth into one of the fingers of her gloves. She had no trouble tugging at the fine leather on each finger, working the glove free of her hand with an awkward slowness that she tried to ignore.

She also tried to disregard the way his eyes remained riveted on her mouth as she tugged with her teeth. When the glove slid off, she slipped it into her bag and returned to her earlier stance of holding the gun with both hands. She again waited for his instruction – how easily she slipped back into the role of student – and when she glanced at him, she sucked a sharp breath at the look upon his face.

His eyes were aglow with rage.

She knew that look well, had studied it in the last moments under the opera when Raoul had hung from a hangman's noose. His eyes had contained the fires of rage – and other emotions – so deep that only by shocking him with her actions had she been able to free him of it.

What had suddenly angered him? Her mind spun backwards, trying to remember what had just happened. She had removed her glove from her hand, and that hand was his focus now, his eyes scorching as they laid upon her exposed wrist.

And the dark purple which spread across the skin there.

Immediately, she pulled her wrist down into the folds of her skirt, still holding the pistol. The man before her stood up from the bench, and as he rose to his full height, she tried not to shrink back. God, he was _tall_ , and she had forgotten how much he could tower over her. He still cupped his deformity, and that small reminder of his own vulnerability was all that kept her from fleeing once again from the mausoleum.

"Let me _see_ ," he said, biting his words.

"Please stay back," she whispered, hating the high-pitched panic in her voice.

To her surprise, he nodded, eyes still glowering. His own hand raised and outstretched toward her, palm up. "Let me see your wrist."

Transferring the gun to her other hand, she slowly lifted her bared hand and rested it tentatively on his outstretched palm, the back of her hand skimming the surface of his own skin, which was mostly covered by the bandage. The contact sent shockwaves coursing through her, and she heard him suck in a breath. Resisting the urge to jerk back her hand, she let him drink in the full view of her bruises.

"I did this."

"Yes." What more could she say? Yes, he had, the iron grip of his hand bruising her as he dragged her beneath the opera house.

He rocked upon his stance, taking a skittering step toward her before drawing himself up short. His other hand still clutched at his face, but his large, long fingers did little to cover up the girth of his lips on that side, which spread and stretched across his cheek. She had kissed those lips mere days ago. She had pressed _her_ palm against the malformed cheek, finding the skin an odd combination of soft patches and stiff ridges.

Removing his hand from under hers, he lifted it once again, bring it up to hover just under her chin. She recognized the tilt of his hand, the angle of his fingers, immediately. The first time she had ventured to his underground home, he had manipulated her with the tiniest of touches under her chin, sometimes even without touching her at all, controlling where he wanted her to look and when. Now, she realized he had feared letting her see him too closely, of giving her any sort of control, but she had been entranced by him, the movements reminding her of how he so subtly corrected her stance while singing.

Without speaking, she obliged his request, tilting her head upward and exposing the pale pillar of her throat. She knew he saw the purple bruises on either side of her neck from where his fingers had almost choked the life from her during his wrath. After a moment, he drew back, stepping out of her space.

"I hurt you."

She would not make excuses for him. Yes, he had, in more ways than mere physical. She thought of all the replies she could make, she thought of how he had sneered at Raoul for suggesting he would harm her, and she had no suitable reply.

He seemed to curl in on himself, the backs of his legs hitting the bench as he moved back from her further. "I never meant… I never would have…" He met her eyes, his own wide and wild.

"And yet you did," she said softly.

* * *

She was right.

In the same moment he had vowed never to harm her, he had done that very thing. Now, seeing the marks upon her skin, the bruises that forced him to confront his own actions, he could not ignore the memories of that night.

He _had_ heaved her into the darkness against her will. He remembered the creak of the delicate bones in her wrist as he had gripped her arm, unrelenting, not letting her go until he was confident she could not escape.

He _had_ wound his hand around her neck and dug his fingertips into her flesh. When he had shouted back and forth at the Vicomte, his fingers had tightened without him even realizing what he had been doing.

So there it was – the slap of the reality of what he had done, of that night.

"I… was not in my right mind," he said as the realization took hold, "not thinking clearly."

She took a step toward him, her exquisite mouth set in a firm line. As always, he admired the way she could stand up to him. "Is that what happened to Piangi? A moment of not thinking clearly?"

Oh, to bring up the last death he had created! Any excuse he gave her would ring hollow in his ears and turn her away from him. Here she was, standing before him, her blue eyes filled with fear, but still she stood, and he would do anything, _anything_ to keep her from running again. He glanced at the pistol held in her hand and shook his head against any of those dark thoughts.

He had known he had little time to get Piangi out of the way before he missed his cue to return his character to the stage. He was not ready to admit to the angel before him that he had merely been too blind in his anger and nervousness not to realize how tightly he held the punjab.

And so he met her fierce eyes and answered, "I have no answer for you."

Her beautiful face darkened at that, and she seemed intent to argue. However, a whistle blew in the distance, starling them both.

"My stagecoach," she said, face flushing. How easily and prettily she blushed; she always had struggled to keep her emotions off her face. "I have lingered too long."

He detested the panic that rose up within him, but he now faced the real possibility of again having her slip away from him. He could do nothing – would do nothing – to stop her as she slipped the pistol back into her waistband and gathered up her satchel. She pulled out a bundle of food before slipping the ladies' bag back onto her wrist and replacing her glove.

"Please, take the food," she said, holding it out to him, and he did so without a word. "The blanket too."

His pride made him bristle, but he merely nodded. "You must go before he leaves you here."

She moved to the doorway, but turned back to him, clearly hesitating on some sort of decision. "Will you remain here?"

"If it rains tomorrow night, I will move. I have a flat, but some of the way must be traveled aboveground." He had not used that apartment since he had first moved to Paris, and he knew the dwelling was mostly empty. But at least it would be a warm, dry place to sleep until he decided where he would venture next.

Without Christine at his side.

She drew back to him. "So if I return tomorrow, you will be here?"

His heart pounded at the thought. Gods, yes! "Indeed, I will." He had little fear now that she would lead the gendarmerie to him. She had come here of her own will just to see if he was still alive. She had been careful to aim her weapon away from him at all times. This kindness from her far surpassed anything he deserved, and he would take every scrap.

She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He could feel the warmth of her on the portion of his face uncovered by his hand. "Until tomorrow, then, monsieur."

"Erik."

She paused halfway beyond the gate of the mausoleum. "Pardon?"

He drank in the sight of her, committing her to memory in case this would be the last. "The name I use most often is Erik. If you would."

An Angel he was no longer, and never would he return to the depths of the opera to be its Phantom. And while she chose to still look upon him, to grace him with her presence, he would not be a Ghost.

The softening of her mouth, the way the corners lifted almost imperceptivity, nearly undid him. "Erik," she repeated, and he fisted his hand, clawed his own cheek, against the ensuing trembling. His name upon her lips – if she had ever said it before, he truly would never have let her go.

"Goodnight, Erik."

Again, she said his name, and when she finally turned away and headed back into the night, he fell back against the stone bench. He touched the crevices of his deformed face, the malformed bloat of his lips, and he remembered how her touch had felt there.

He took the blanket she had left and pulled it about his shoulders to still his quaking. Her scent wafted from the fabric, as crisp and sweet as the rose-scented perfume she favored. Perhaps he should have immediately fled the city than face the saccharine torture of her presence.

He had never felt so lost as he did now that he had been found.

* * *

 **Next: the rain starts up again.**


	5. Into the Tunnels

**As always, thank you for the reviews! :)**

* * *

 **Chapter Five: Into the Tunnels**

Christine awoke to the sound of the heavy drapes in her room scraping against the metal curtain rod. Gray light spilled into her bedroom, and she cracked her eyes open to see a sliver of dark sky. Rain sluiced down the window pane in thick rivets. She remembered how the heavy clouds had opened up on her ride back to Raoul's home, and she had soaked the hem of her skirts as she walked the final two blocks.

Erik had been right about the rain.

 _Erik_.

Last night, she had found her Maestro, and he had told her his name.

Christine sat up in bed, immediately wide awake. Annette, her lady's maid, opened the rest of the drapes, allowing cool, damp light into the room.

"Pardon my intrusion, mademoiselle," the girl said, dropping a small curtsy. "But Monsieur Vicomte asked that I wake you."

Christine rubbed the sleep from her eyes. "What time is it?"

"Almost ten o'clock. He says you're to dress and meet him downstairs in a half hour. He says dress for the Louvre."

A groan almost rose within Christine before she realized what she was feeling – should she not be _excited_ to go to the art museum with Raoul? She had not been able to spend much time with him in the past few days, and they certainly had not been able to relax and enjoy each other's company now that they were officially engaged. As Raoul had said, his father was putting their engagement in the newspaper next week, and they needed to have a bit of fun together before the bustle of wedding planning began.

Christine's mind flitted to the wedding dress her Maestro – Erik – had chosen for her, and she shook such thoughts away.

Annette laid out a rather sickly yellow dress with light green trim and various underclothes for her to wear, including a bustle to fill out the bulbous backing of the skirt. Another borrowed gown. Christine had already been told she had a dress fitting tomorrow, no doubt to help remedy her lack of suitable clothing for a woman who was about to marry into a stature above her own.

She thanked Annette and accepted her offer to help her dress, especially because this dress required more complicated layering. This was the first time she and Raoul would venture in public together – with Raoul's youngest sister in tow – and she had to dress appropriately.

She sipped tea and ate a bit of toast while Annette did her hair, pinning most of her curls atop her head in a way she knew would give her a headache, and then headed downstairs. Raoul sat in the parlor, having his own tea while reading the paper. He flashed a white grin when he saw her and stood.

"Ah, there you are, and you look lovely." He took her hand and pressed a kiss to the back.

"Stop that," she said with a small grin.

A feminine voice sounded from deeper within the room. "Of course she looks lovely, dear brother. She is wearing my dress!"

Christine turned to see Helaine, Raoul's youngest sister, striding toward them. She had only just met Raoul's family, and Helaine was certainly the testiest of the sisters. Her seemingly bubbly personality was edged with under-handed comments that Christine tried to not let under her skin.

"Thank you so much for letting me borrow it," Christine said.

Helaine sniffed. "It is too big on me anyway, so I'm glad to see it used. Raoul tells me he has an outing to the Louvre planned for today. I tried to beg him to go somewhere else instead, but he insisted."

Raoul seemed undaunted by, and perhaps too used to, his sister's attitude. "We shall see some paintings from the Italian Renaissance, perhaps a few new pieces from Egypt, and then have lunch at your favorite spot."

Her eyes brightened a bit at that. "The La Tour d'Argent?"

"Of course."

Clapping her hands together, Helaine hurried over to grab her handbag. "Just as long as we get one of the tables overlooking the Notre Dame. I do hope they put enough sauce on my duck this time!" She snapped her fingers, sending a footman scurrying to fetch her cloak.

Christine got her own cloak, tying it under her chin herself. "I do not know how much of a view we might have, considering the rain."

"Oh really, Christine. Such a pessimist!"

 _Give me a reason not to be_ , Christine thought, but bit her tongue. She could play nice, _had_ to play nice. Soon, Raoul's sister would become her own.

When the butler opened the door, and a footman stood with the door to a stagecoach opened, the three of them headed inside quickly. Raoul and Christine took one bench, while Helaine sat across from them.

And they were on their way.

The morning passed as Christine predicted it might. Helaine made snide comments about the art as they ventured from room to room, even sometimes speaking over the voice of their guide, an older gentleman who obviously adored every piece in the exhibit. Christine's thoughts strayed to the man currently hidden inside a crypt. Once, he had shown her some of the items on his own shelf, such as a sleek cat carved from a piece of turquoise, which he said had come from Persia. Would he have turned his nose up at this art? She did not think he would have, based on how much he seemed to appreciate telling her about his own collection of eccentricities.

Lunch passed with the same amount of annoyance on Helaine's part. Her duck was sent back to the kitchen three times before she was satisfied.

Finally, after five hours spent with Raoul's sister, Christine stumbled back up the steps to the manor. They had been well taken care of during their trek across the city, but her feet hurt, and she was dying to take off this bodice, the sleeves of which scratched her forearms.

Helaine flittered off to her own quarters, demanding her afternoon tea without another word to them. Raoul lingered at Christine's side, shooting her a look that mirrored her own thoughts.

"Oh, my darling, I am sorry about Helaine."

Christine managed a tense smile. "No matter. She _is_ your sister, and I will certainly love her as my own."

He stepped up to her, clasping her shoulders. "Another reason to love you." He pressed his lips to hers in a light kiss. "What are your plans for the rest of the day?"

 _A rest,_ she thought. _And then I must help the man who tried to murder you venture across the city to a safer location._

"A rest," she said. "And maybe a trip to see Meg afterward."

At that, Raoul snapped his fingers. "That reminds me! You received a letter from her earlier."

And he was just now remembering? She pushed her annoyance side and took the envelope he fetched from the downstairs parlor. The seal had not been broken, which made her relax a bit – she never had any idea what Meg might put in a note between the two of them. She opened the envelope.

 _Christine,_

 _I miss you, friend. May I tempt you over for brunch tomorrow? A letter arrived for you this morning. Come over and open it!_

 _Ciao,_

 _Meg_

When Raoul raised his eyebrows in question, Christine saw no reason to keep the Meg's note from him. She handed over the paper and waited while he read.

He passed it back. "A letter?"

She shrugged. "I have no idea." She really did not. "I guess I shall go over tomorrow, then." Borrowing some supplies, she wrote a quick note back and gave it to a footman to deliver.

Raoul gave a laugh. "There go your plans! Unfortunately for me, I must join my father in the office. I fear we will be burning the oil late tonight to make up for my absence this morning. I do have to say, I did not inherit my love of the arts from my father! He is annoyed that I went to the Louvre with you."

She winced in sympathy, and as soon as he left, she went upstairs to her room to try to rest. She tossed around in bed, unable to get comfortable, unable to still her mind. Tonight, would she really venture back to the cemetery?

She took out the white mask and sat by the small bedroom fire, which had been lit to fight back the chill from the rain. She had always known him with this mask on, an article of clothing not only meant to conceal his deformity, but to maintain his air of intrigue and mysteriousness. However, last night, he had been just a man on the run from police. She had noticed the way he had kept his face tilted away from her, as though trying to protect her from the sight.

Sighing, she hid the mask away once again and changed from the dress she had borrowed from Helaine. She wanted something darker and less noticeable in the night. Besides, with all the rain, she would no doubt soak the hem. She chose an older frock of dark green that did not require a bustle and slipped it on.

On her nightstand, she left a small note saying she had gone for a walk, just in case someone might come looking for her.

She probably should have waited until the middle of the night like last night, but as she watched the sun set, her heart began to race at the thought of seeing him once again. She knew she would get no sleep anyway. After dinner finished downstairs, she stole into the kitchen to plead for a meat pie, an apple, and a strawberry tart. She had no idea what kinds of food Erik preferred, so this would have to do.

Sitting in the parlor, she waited until everyone had dispersed to other sections of the house. Then, she fastened her black cloak around her neck and pulled on her thick gloves against the chill. She slid her bag over her wrist, the parcel once again filled with food. She found the lantern where she had tucked it behind the divan and made certain it was still lit.

In a moment when no one was around, she headed for the front door. However, the click of her boots against the wood called attention, and a footman appeared.

"Here, mademoiselle," he said, and opened the door for her. Instantly, the night chill hit her cheeks, the sound of the rain loud upon the cobblestones outside.

"T-Thank you," she replied, heading out.

Instead of then leaving, he scooped up an umbrella by the door and opened it to hold it above her head.

She smiled at him and made her way down the steps. Thinking for a moment, she paused and held out her hand. "May I?"

His eyes widened a little, but he obliged and handed her the umbrella. She thanked him again and hurried off down the street, needing to get a few blocks away before hailing a cab. She hated that someone from the household had seen her leave, but at least the hour was still reasonable, despite the rain. The gaslamps along the street had all been lit, but they did little to cut into the darkness of the rain.

By now, the rain had fallen for over twenty-four hours. She did not know how much longer it would continue, but the streets were soaked, and she could not avoid puddles as she quickly made her way to a busier street a few blocks away.

Finally, she was in a stagecoach headed to the graveyard, her lantern dimmed to preserve the oil, thankful to be out of the rain for at least a while. Too soon, they arrived, and she paid the driver, allowing him to leave her here, ignoring his raised eyebrows and grateful when he did not ask questions.

She did not head straight for the mausoleum where Erik had hidden yesterday. First, she wanted to visit her father, needing… something. A moment to herself. A fraction of time to remember what her life had been when he had lived. The rain pouring around her like a curtain, she made her way to the familiar stone monument, the angel with spread wings peering down at her. She had once found the imagery here beautiful and comforting. Now, the angel reminded her of the years she had spent believing a lie… and later paying for it in every way.

Stopping before her father's name, she visually traced the letters that spelled Gustave Daaé. At least the downpour had washed away the grim and dirty snow that had accumulated on his gravestone.

If her father had known what would happen, would he have entrusted her life to the opera house, to Madame Giry? Would he have spent her childhood spinning her stories from their homeland, nurturing her love of music in a way that would eventually cause her to become its prey? She knew her father had wanted to offer her the world, and she understood now that his tales of the Angel of Music had only meant to comfort her when he was gone.

But Erik had taken those stories and twisted them. She had been so _naïve._

Well, no longer would she trust anyone to lead her own path.

She felt his presence behind her before she heard the scuff of his shoes upon the stone pathway. She did not turn from her position facing her father's grave. "You never answered my question."

If she surprised him by not offering a greeting first, he did not show it. His voice answered, low and rumbling behind her. "Which was?"

"Of all places, why did you choose to come here?"

She heard his soft sigh, a sound which might have been lost to the rain if not mingled with his next words. "I thought, in haste, of a place where I could hide. So much the better that it was a place that reminded me of you."

"And the letter to Monsieur Khan?" Half-turning, she peered over her shoulder at him.

Erik stood a few paces behind her. She had not heard him approach until, she thought, he had wanted her to. He wore a black suit jacket, longer than the style he normally wore, and a black cloak without his usual stitched adornment. To complete his dark ensemble, he also wore black gloves and a wide-brimmed hat that was tugged low upon his head, helping to hide his uncovered face. God only knew where he gotten the clothes. Standing there, rain pelting the brim of his hat and his broad shoulders, a tall shadow among shadows, he was magnificent.

She could see the line of his mouth thin, yet it was his only sign of crossness with her. "I wanted the last thing I wrote to be something of you," he said simply. "Am I to have no secrets, Christine?"

She scowled at him. He still had plenty of secrets! But before she could retort, he had shaken his head.

"Ask what you like. I suppose it no longer matters." He drew himself up. "You returned tonight."

"I have."

"And?"

She hesitated a moment, then took up her lantern and came to stand at his side. As the glow of the light approached him, he turned his body so that his right side faced away – a slight move that he tried to make look casual. The thought why pained her.

As she had stood at her father's grave, she had realized what she needed to do. Her life was on the verge of spinning out of control, and if she wanted any chance of actually marrying Raoul, she needed to put her past behind her.

She peered up at him, meeting his golden-brown eyes. So much hung upon his answer to her next question:

"If I help you, will you leave Paris?"

* * *

Erik had known the moment she entered the cemetery. He had slept little since her first visit, at first too energized by her presence and later too on edge from the visitors coming to pay their respects to relatives. By his luck, the rain had driven most people away, and so he had caught a few hours' rest in the thickest of the downpour.

However, as the rain continued, he had grown restless. He knew the history of flooding in Paris, and how often and easily it could do so in the winter months. If he had any hope of reaching his flat without incident, he needed to take the sewers as much of the way as possible. He could not do so if they were flooded.

But instead of leaving, he had waited to see if she could return. And she had - this time, her footsteps quick and sure. And oh, how lovely she looked, her cheeks and nose pink from the cold, her gloved hands delicately holding aloft the lantern, her feet carefully finding her path. Her dark hair was piled high upon her head with a few curls framing her face. And how he ached for her, the feeling now as familiar as breathing for him.

He had waited before making his company known, giving her the space she needed to offer respects to her late father. And later, her pointed questions, asked without hesitation, had taken him aback, but he had recovered.

The way she met his own eyes made him fall in love with her all the more.

"If I help you, will you leave Paris?" she asked.

He ignored the hope coloring her voice, and he pushed aside the bitterness that rose within him. Of course, she wanted him gone. He had given her no reason to think or feel otherwise.

So, he replied with as much surety as he could muster: "If you help me, I will leave _France_."

Something flashed within her blue eyes and was gone. With that, she seemed to accept his answer. "Very well. Shall we go?"

"This way." He led her to a different mausoleum than the one in which she had found him yesterday. This crypt was much larger, its walls lined in wooden coffins, an open tunnel at the far end that angled downward. Once inside, she closed the umbrella, shaking off the excess water. Then she stood, visibly swallowing.

"These catacombs spread for kilometers beneath Paris," he explained after seeing her hesitation. "Eventually, they connect with the sewer. I know almost every passage, sealed or otherwise. We shall not become lost, I assure you."

She did not reply, eyes wide, one hand clutching the side of her cloak tighter around her. He reached for the lantern, hating the way she immediately flinched, but she let him pluck it from her grasp. His other gloved hand he extended in invitation.

"Trust me, Christine," he murmured. "You once did so beneath the opera."

That brought a flash of determination to her gaze. "And look where that got me."

And she took his hand.

Into the darkness of the tunnel they went, though the light was not that much dimmer than the clouded night sky outside. He wished for no gloves that he might feel the warmth of her hand on his, but it was enough to grasp the thin bones of her fingers and tug her along with him. He gave her every avenue to escape, every moment she might change her mind, and yet she did not, her strides as swift and sure as his own.

Soon, they were beyond where the rain could reach, and the catacombs, while cool, were dry so that they walked with ease. If the endless bones and arranged skeletal remains of heads frightened her, she gave no indication except in the way she might squeeze his hand or move slightly closer to him. He kept her on his left side, so that his unmasked face was always turned from her. She needed no additional horror to add to her discomfort.

After a long length of walking in silence, he ventured a question. "Are you still singing at the Populaire?"

He did so want to know if she would continue to grace the world with her gift. But he, perhaps, should have chosen a different subject.

She stiffened, tugging loose her hand. "I am not. They have shuttered their doors, although I hear they plan to reopen as early as next week. I will not be rejoining them."

"Your choice or theirs?" he demanded, unable to keep the irritation from his voice.

"If you must know – _mine_ , Erik. There is no way I could bear to be upon that stage again, not after everything that has happened." She grew bitter, perfect eyebrows drawn together. "Do I really have to explain to you why?"

"You do not." He hesitated, then decided to push on anyway. "However, you have a gift, Christine, one that should be shared with the world. If you have an opportunity to sing, you should take it."

She pulled her cloak tighter about her shoulders. "If I stayed at the Populaire, I would draw crowds because of gossip, not because of my voice. I had a chance, and now it is gone. I never even had the opportunity to stand on my own feet, did I?" He could feel her eyes boring into him, and he kept his own on their path, unable, ashamedly, to meet them at that moment. "Please do not presume that you have any right to speak of my career again."

He clenched his jaw against several retorts he could make. Forcing himself to relax, he replied, "As you wish, mademoiselle."

They continued on in silence.

Soon, they could hear the rush of swift-moving water ahead. The end of this section of tunnel opened into the side of the sewer. Two narrow walkways framed either side of a wide stream bloated from the thick rain overhead. The change in smell was noticeable but not completely unpleasant as it might normally be. At least the rain had washed away much of the stagnant stench.

"Now we leave the catacombs behind," he told Christine and offered his hand again. "May I? The path is slick."

Although she still frowned at him, she took his hand, her grip tight as she stared at the murky water. "I expected more of a smell."

He held the lantern aloft in front of him, guiding her to stay close to the curved wall as she followed behind him, the route here too narrow to walk alongside each other. "The rain has helped with that," he said. "Although these sewers carry river water for the purposes of drinking, not for sewage."

"I had no idea all of this was under the city," she stated, her eyes wide.

He always appreciated the wonder she had for anything new and envied the way she could sometimes look at the world. "There are miles of interconnecting tunnels. Truly a modern marvel, especially as they continue to connect them to each household." The corner of his mouth curled. "They are convenient passageways for a man like me."

"A man like you," she echoed, sounding pensive.

After a while, they came to a series of supports that crossed the rushing stream, each wooden board no wider than the width of a human foot. The noise of water was louder here since they were now closer to the Seine. As Erik had feared, the river was flooding, unable to hold this much rain in one day, especially while they were also coming off the melt of a recent snow.

The stream spanned at least ten feet across here, too far for him to simply lead her across. That greenish depth was likely only as tall as a man, but the swift current would be enough to quickly sweep anyone away, no matter how easily they could swim. Erik could effortlessly cross, and had done so in his escape from the opera house days before, but from the way Christine clutched at his hand, she was less sure of her own ability. He would not risk her falling into the water.

He paused here, turning back toward her. "We must continue across to reach the Seine. Once we are there, we will need to exit the tunnels to cross the river."

She nodded, but her eyes were focused on the water. "Erik," she said, voice hoarse. "I can swim, but I fear not that well."

"You will not have to," he said, swinging the lantern around so she could see the confidence in his gaze. "Look at me, Christine."

She did, and he hated the glossiness that coated her blue eyes, belaying her fear.

"I will carry you across."

She sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes darting to the water and back to him. "You-you cannot do such a thing."

"I can." He pried her tight grip free of his hand, gently took the umbrella and her handbag from her, and dashed nimbly across the board, laying all items including the lantern on the other side. When he looked back across the water, she stood there, her petite form small against the shadows of the stone wall.

He crossed again and stepped to her side. "Take a deep breath, as you might to release a long note. As we cross, slowly release that breath. Understand?"

She nodded and said nothing more as he caught her up in his arms, one beneath her upper back, one enfolding her legs amongst the thick layers of her skirts. With his gloves and her clothes, he could feel little of the shape of her body, and now was not the time to let his mind consider it. He felt her chest expand with a deep breath, and he began the trek across the waters. He walked more carefully this time, making sure each foot was firmly planted, and she slowly let out her breath as he had instructed.

When he reached the other side, he set her upon her feet, hands upon the curves of her shoulders until he was confident she was steady. Her face was paler, but otherwise she seemed fine.

"Thank you," she said softly.

He took a moment before pressing them onward. He could try to convince himself the pause was for her benefit, to regain some color in her cheeks before they ventured back into the rain above. However, the fierce pounding of his heart betrayed him.

* * *

 **Next up: More rain, more problems, more confrontation.**


	6. A Walk in the Rain

**Chapter Six: A Walk in the Rain**

After they crossed the rushing stream within the tunnel, Erik led Christine around a bend that followed another glut of water, this time an outlet that fed into the Seine itself. He could tell she heaved a sigh of relief as soon as they caught sight of outside and felt the fresh breeze blowing off the river.

Erik pressed a finger to his lips and urged her to stay put while he surveyed the exit of the tunnel. While the rain was still a downpour, he wanted to be positive that no one would see them leave the sewer. Once he was certain no one else was nearby, and indeed the streets close to the Seine seemed abandoned, he motioned for Christine to follow.

She approached, and he hesitated, then turned back toward her. "I fear we must take to the streets for a while. It… is best if I walk upon your left side."

She gazed up at him, her face aglow in the light of the lantern. For a moment, it seemed as though she did not understand what he meant, but then her eyes widened slightly. Her lips parted with a soft "Ah." His heart seized.

Then those plump lips curved upward, and he was riveted on the sight. "Erik," she said ever so gently. "Do what you must."

She had not said she did not mind his face, but he appreciated that she would not lie to try to save his dignity. Only days ago, she had told him that the ruin of his right side no longer frightened her, but he had not believed her. He still did not. Still, if she could at least ignore his visage while they walked in the darkness, they stood a better chance of passing through the streets without gaining anyone's attention. This was the moment he had needed her the most for tonight.

He checked that his hat was still pulled down low and opened the umbrella. With one hand holding the lantern and the other the umbrella, he extended his right elbow.

"Shall we stroll?"

Those lips, they gave a hint of a smile once again. "Why not?" she answered flippantly, and she took his elbow. He could not feel the warmth of her hand through her glove and his layers, but he enjoyed the slight pressure of her fingers nonetheless.

After another glance outside, he took them out of the tunnel.

The terrible waters of the Seine, black against the night, churned before them. The edges of the river lapped angrily at the bank, far higher than the surface had been days ago. The level was disturbingly high, and in mere hours, the path they took now would likely be completely covered. Even now, they stepped in deep puddles caused by the river sloshing over the shoreline.

He felt Christine's grip on his elbow tighten. "I have never seen such flooding," she said, her unease evident.

"A few years ago, perhaps. The tunnels were unusable for weeks. I dare not tell you what happened to the catacombs."

She shuddered and did not ask for details.

They began to walk along the river until they came to a path that led upward to the nearest bridge. They had emerged quite north of where he had gone missing, and it was now a relatively straight shot across the rest of the city to his flat near the Saint-Lazare train station. If they hurried, they could reach it in little more than half an hour.

"We should stay aboveground the rest of the way," he told her after considering the flooding he had seen. "I do not want to take any unnecessary risks."

She nodded and gave his arm a comforting squeeze, which caused him to tense for a variety of reasons. "For that I am grateful!"

They passed a few people during their trek, especially once they grew closer to the Saint Augustine church. Erik nodded at most as they passed, doing his best to stay calm and act like any other gentleman might. He was, of course, no gentleman, but with Christine on his arm, no one seemed to take notice of how he hid his face. Whenever they met someone, he tilted his head ever so slightly in Christine's direction, engaging her in conversation. Dear girl, she caught on quickly, meeting his seemingly random enthusiasm for chatter whenever necessary.

Now was not the appropriate time for speaking with strangers on the street, in any case, due to the unceasing downpour. He noticed that her skirts had become soaked, and she was doing her best to pull her cloak around her arms with one hand. She gave no complaint against the rain or the frigid air, as he knew she would.

After they had made about half the distance to the apartment, he went to nod at yet another stranger they passed when he noticed the man seemed familiar. Erik tensed immediately, his eyes darting to the man's face and recognizing him. They had only just passed this same man about ten minutes prior. Unlike the other people out and about, this man walked alone. The likelihood was that he was a pickpocket seeking another victim, and certainly Erik could easily defend against such petty theft, but with Christine at his side, he would take no chances.

As soon as the man grew close enough, and Erik's instincts had been correct, for he saw the glint of a knife, he swept out a long leg and knocked the man's feet from under him.

In the span of the next breath, Erik dropped the lantern onto the wet sidewalk so he could grasp Christine's hand, and broke into a run, forcing her to follow him. She let out a startled yelp, stumbling with his sudden fast pace.

Erik darted down a dark alleyway and turned corner after corner, his eyes darting about as he sought a suitable place to hide, and he threw them both into the far end of a different alley that ended in the intersection of two high rise buildings. He swung Christine against the cold stone of one of the buildings and covered her mouth with a gloved hand to stop her from speaking. The umbrella he snapped against her legs, silencing the pitter-patter of the rain against its surface but letting the black color hide the bulk of her green dress.

Then, he listened, waiting for any sign the man had been able to follow.

* * *

Christine had no idea why Erik had attacked that man in the top hat, but she had not been able to do much but allow him to tug her into an abandoned backstreet. He had dropped the lantern, leaving them both in the pitch blackness of deep shadows and a rain-cloudy sky.

What was going on? Why had he panicked? She wanted to ask, but he had pressed a hand against her mouth, leaving her to suck in sharp breaths through her nose. The smell of the cold leather was overwhelming, and she thought she might pass out from her sudden exertion and the inability to draw enough air. She looked up at him with wild eyes, but he was focused on the adjoining street, the silhouette of his face angled away from her all she could see. Finally, he eased up, allowing her to breathe more freely.

Without the umbrella, rain pelted both of their heads, running in great rivulets from the brim of his hat and soaking her face and shoulders. Erik leaned in close, pressing the tall line of his body against hers, the frigid stone seeping into her back. He put one forearm against the wall above her shoulder, his cloak coming around her upper body as if to shield her.

She understood what he was doing – using the black colors to hide her dress in the shadows. However, she could not seem to slow her fast breathing, her heart thudding in her chest like it wanted to escape. Erik pressed in around her, his own breaths coming with a slow easiness she envied, close enough to warm her numb cheeks. His own scent drifted to her nose, smelling more of his unique musk than the herb and cedarwood cologne she normally associated with him; the lingering scents of dampness and the outdoors also clung to him, not altogether unpleasant.

He leaned closer still, his unmarred cheek as close to her as he could get without touching. "Easy, Christine," he whispered, almost so low she could not hear him, a rumbling against the shell of her ear. "Relax, dear one. You are safe."

The umbrella leaning against their legs, he pulled his free hand up to tug the hood of her cloak lower upon the crown of her head, shielding most of her face from view. She did not miss the feel of those gloved fingers trembling against her hair, nor the way they hesitated before sliding down the line of her body to return to his side.

"No gun tonight, I see."

She lifted her chin up at that. It was like he had sought out a comment that would anger her enough to overcome her complicated fear. It worked.

His answering deep chuckle reverberated in her ear, and she did shiver then. She had never heard a genuine laugh from him, not one born from true happiness, and she could hear the underlying bitterness in his tone. Did he truly think she carried the weapon because of _him_?

"Erik-" she began, whispering, and she heard his noise to hush her against her neck, just above the collar of her bodice.

She raised her hands and placed them against his chest. She wanted to push him away, could not take much more of this close contact. As she warred with either shoving at him or pulling him closer, he straightened, breaking off the contact of his body against hers.

"Come," he said, once again raising the umbrella above them. "Without the lantern, we can stay to the shadows. We will be there soon."

He extended his hand, which she took without question. She was glad to have a bit of space from him so her rapid heartbeat did not betray her. The quicker they reached his apartment, the quicker she could go home to Raoul, her true love. She needed to see him again, needed the reassurance his presence would bring to her heart. Her attraction to Erik… she had to shake it off.

He was much more cautious now, his strides long, and she had to sometimes run to keep up with him. In the dim light of the gas lamps lining the streets, she could see his eyes darting around them, often over his shoulder. He made more of an effort to avoid passing strangers, although as the rain began to pour even harder, they saw almost no one.

Finally, when she was soaked to the bone and could no longer feel the tips of her fingers within her gloves, he swept her down several narrow streets, the neighborhood noticeably second class here. He peered up at a street number, then shouldered his way into double doors, which led to a staircase.

Christine was glad to be out of the rain. They both stood there for a moment, shaking the water from their cloaks. She lowered her hood and found that even her hair was dripping wet. She followed him up two flights of stairs before he stopped in front of a door near the back of the building. As she watched, he produced some kind of pin, and in a moment of fiddling with the lock, he had opened the door, ushering her inside and closing the door behind them.

The scent of dust hit her nostrils, but the place seemed otherwise fine. Erik flitted about the small room, seeming to know his way around despite the dark. She waited until he lit a lamp before untying her cloak and hanging it on a coat rack near the door to drip dry. He busied himself with lighting a fire in a small hearth, then he hurried about the apartment, pulling dusty white sheets from furniture while she watched.

She had never seen him in a normal environment before, and his large black form seemed out of place. At once, she felt awkward, and when he had finished making the place suitable, he paused in the middle of the room, staring at her in a way that seem to mirror her own thoughts.

"Right," he said in a shaky voice, remembering his cloak. He pulled the heavy fabric from his shoulders and hung it next to hers. He did not remove his hat, keeping it low upon his face. "Please, warm yourself by the fire. I will see what I can find to dry ourselves." Clearing his throat, he hurried off to a back room.

She did as he had asked, moving to the fire and stoking it. Her face was thawing, and she removed her wet gloves so she could hold her fingers to the warm flames. She was still dripping all over the wooden floor, her skirts soaked through. Despite the fire, she was starting to shake from the cold and reality of her situation.

What was she doing here? She could be tucked in her own bed right at this moment. She could be kissing Raoul goodnight. She could be doing anything but trembling at the mere thought of _his_ gaze on her again.

Erik returned, his arms laden with blankets. He set them on a table, then pulled a large armchair near the fireplace. He paused, tilting his head at her so he could peer at her, the smooth side of his face deliberately angled her way. She hated how he made obvious effort to keep his deformity hidden, and she guessed he did not have any spare masks here.

"Are you all right?" he asked quietly.

"Just cold and wet," she said, trying to stay flippant while also folding her arms defensively over herself.

He merely nodded and gestured at the blankets. "I have nothing here for you to change into." He did that odd clearing his throat thing again. "You can drape your clothes over the grate near the fire. They will dry quickly there."

She swallowed. "I couldn't possibly… I should probably be leaving."

"Christine, it is a long walk back to Le Marais, and it will take some time for a carriage to arrive in this neighborhood. You will catch your death if you stay in those clothes."

He was right, and she almost hated him for it. But how could she… with him right there? As though suddenly aware of her anxiety, he headed for the door. "I will send for a cab. Give me a moment." He left the apartment and reappeared soon. "I have fresh clothes of my own. Call for me when… you are covered. Yes?"

"Y-yes," she finally agreed.

He hurried from the room, heading to what must be a bedroom down a short hallway. She waited until she heard a door shut, and then, turning toward the fire, she began to unbutton her bodice. Quicker than she had ever before, she tore off her soaked outer layers – her bodice, her skirt, her double layer of petticoats, draping each near the flames – until she was left in her chemise and corset. She unpinned her hair, which was a mess anyway, so she could press it dry in a towel, then wrapped herself in one of the blankets, a thick woolen one that was as large as a double bed and covered her as completely as possible. She left on her stockings, even though they were damp, needing the security they provided in her mind.

From her satchel, she was pleased to find that the food she had placed there had survived the trip intact. She laid out the meat pie, pastry, and fruit, and settled into the chair. In as strong a voice as she could muster, she called out, "I am ready!"

Ready for what? What a stupid thing to have said, but nonetheless, Erik must have been waiting because the door opened immediately, and he returned to the room. He was dressed in a dry pair of black pants and a slightly wrinkled white shirt. He still wore his hat.

He brought himself up short of entering the room, almost skidding to a halt when he saw her huddled beneath the blanket. She stared back at him. One of his hands tapped against his thigh, almost in agitation, and then he swung away to approach a small stove with a single burner.

"Tea? I found an unopened canister. It may be stale, however."

"T-that is fine," she replied. "I brought some food, if you are hungry."

He half-turned back to her, glancing at the spread on the table. "You are always so kind, so lovely." For an awkward moment, he openly stared at her again, then jerked back to the burner, upon which he placed a kettle.

Was he… nervous?

She drew the blanket tighter about her shoulders, hunkering down within the warm folds, trying to ignore her undressed state. She had once spent an entire evening with him while dressed in only a costume corset and a thin dressing robe; she had to trust that he would remain a gentleman now as he had then.

No more words passed between them until the water began to boil, and the tea had been poured.

"No sugar, I am afraid," he said apologetically, handing her a cup.

The warmth of the china spread through her fingers, and she took an eager sip, not caring that she burned her tongue. They both sipped and grimaced at the same time; the tea was dreadful.

Erik drew another chair to her side and sat, turning his attention to the fire. One of his knees bounced with a strange energy until he made an obvious effort to still it. He leaned forward slightly, as though ready to leave at any moment.

Christine nodded her head at his hat. "Why are you still wearing that?"

His eyes, warm golden brown in the flames, alighted on her. It did not escape her notice that he had positioned their chairs so that his deformed side was opposite her. His continued insistence on this was starting to annoy her, and she could not let it go any longer.

The side of his lips she could see, thin but unblemished, turned down in the corner. "You know why," he answered, just short of snapping at her.

She took another sip of tea. "Actually, I do not."

Oh, his bubbling anger was evident in the tension in his shoulders, the way he adjusted his posture in his chair. Would he flee? He seemed ready to escape. She knew exactly what bringing this up would do to his temper; she had been on the receiving end of his rage more than once. More than once, he had flaunted his deformity in front of her, _trying_ to frighten her. Their relationship was contentious for more than one reason, but she would not let this stand between them. She was no longer afraid of his face, and he would not hide from her.

One of his hands came up to cup his cheek in that way he did, the pads of his fingertips feeling the crevices and stretched skin as though reminding himself of how terrible he truly looked. For a moment, she wished she was the one touching his face. For a moment, she remembered when she had.

When she had kissed him.

"Erik-"

In his other hand, the teacup rattled in its saucer. His back bent as he hunched over, his eyes far away. "This," he said, the word hissing from between his lips. "Always, _this_. I suppose it is difficult to ignore, is it not?"

"You have given me no opportunity _to_ ignore it, Erik. Take off your hat, and let us enjoy a small meal together. Have you even eaten anything since the bread I brought?"

He kept his hand clenched against that side of his face, but his eyes jerked up to glare at her. "No, I have not, but I thank you for your scraps."

She sighed, exasperated and a bit hurt. She had risked a lot just getting those for him; she risked _everything_ by continuing to help him. "Why are you suddenly furious with me? You have no right to be." She hid her face with her teacup as she took several more deep gulps, trying to remain calm. The night was starting to catch up with her, and she could not believe he was picking a fight with her _now_ , while she sat here unclothed and exhausted.

She took another defensive sip, this time having to swallow past the lump forming in her throat.

* * *

He was a monster; he knew it. She had helped him cross the city safely without complaint, had brought him food repeatedly, had done nothing but give him kind words, kind touches.

She sat across from him, her petite frame swallowed by the blanket while her clothes dried by the fire. Her hair hung in damp tendrils about her pale face, and her small fingers clutched at her teacup. Her eyes were huge blue pools that were beginning to shimmer with unshed tears. She looked so damned young.

All she had asked was for him to act like a man in front of her.

Yes, he was truly a monster.

"You cannot treat me like this," she continued, voice wet. "I must always be so careful with what I say to you, and yet even when I do, you… you deliberately frighten me."

To his horror, she sat her cup upon the table with a loud clatter and rose from the chair. He saw what she was doing, and before she could reach the door to leave, he dropped his own cup and bolted to stop her, putting himself between her and the door. He knew what would happen if she left now, knew the likelihood was that he would never see her again.

"Move out of my way, Erik." Her eyes were now fierce, still swimming with tears, but she was holding them back; he admired her for it.

"Dressed as you are?" he asked, loathing himself for the way she tightened her hold on the blanket. He kept his hand on his face, doing his best to cover the horror from her sharp gaze.

"If I must."

She tried to brush past him and reach for the doorknob, but he was a mountain. The top of her head barely reached the middle of his chest. There was nothing she could do to move him, and yet still she tried.

"Would you come back once again?" he demanded.

She did glare at him then. "You have no right to ask me that."

"Yet still I ask."

"Why would I return here when you treat me this way? I feel as though you intentionally become the villain in order to drive me away."

Despite his efforts to control himself, he felt the dread rise within him. He had said goodbye to her twice before – once as she had fled with her choice in partner, and again after she had brought him back his ring. He tightened that hand into a fist, remembering that ring was once again on his finger, the weight mocking him now.

The time tonight spent with her, the state of her undress, his empty belly, and lack of sleep – all of it was catching up to him now. He tossed back his head and let out a harsh laugh. "Everyone has the potential for villainy, Christine."

That earned him another jut of her chin. "I always try to see the best in people."

"Like you saw the best in me?"

"I _tried_ to, Erik, but you do your best to prove to me otherwise!"

Her voice had risen until she was almost shouting at him. Her fists let go of her blanket and pounded against his chest, not enough to hurt him but enough to show her despair. The blanket gaped, and he caught a flash of white corset, and he was reminded of what he had made her go through tonight, what she had done for him.

He pressed himself against the door, his head thumping against the wood as he swung his eyes to the ceiling to ignore the flash of creamy skin before him.

Yes, truly a monster.

He staggered away from the door, unable to look at her any longer. He willed his feet back to the chair and sat down heavily. His fingers dug into his grotesque face. He had no mask behind which to hide, no wig to cover his bare scalp. No longer was he her maestro, no longer her angel. His heartbeat pounded in his ears in time with his shame, and if she left, he would not have heard her.

So he did not hear her approach him slowly, did not hear her sink to the floor at his feet. Instead, he felt the gentle pressure of her head against his knee. He cracked open his eyes to see the crown of her head, the puddle of the blanket gathered around her as she settled there.

She said nothing, but her actions were all that he needed. He would accept all that she would give him, and in return, he would shove aside all his fears. If he had any hope of continuing his life in this world, he had no other choice.

He took his hand from the deformed ridges of his face, sucked in a breath at the exposure, and placed his palm, shakily, atop her soft brown hair.

Even if he did not see her again after tonight, she had given him yet another gift – the reassurance that his face could not drive her away, even if his temper surely would.

* * *

 **Next up: Meg has good news and bad news.**


	7. The Easy Lies

**Many new readers - welcome! Please let me know what you think!**

* * *

 **Chapter Seven: The Easy Lies**

Erik watched the flames of the fire as they danced and flickered; occasionally, a chunk of wood sputtered and fell from the pile. Against his knee, Christine had sighed and relaxed, and he kept his hand on her head, eventually gathering enough courage to stroke a few brown tendrils from her smooth forehead.

He had not missed the fading yellow and green bruises on her wrists and neck.

He did not deserve this kindness from her. Once again, he had flung cruel words at her, and she had responded by not only staying but by showing him another side of gentleness that he had not experienced before. Once again, she had known how to calm the storm inside of him, and he sat here unmoving, torn between removing his hand from the soft curls of her hair or delving his fingers within those silky strands.

After a few moments, he realized that her breathing had slowed and her slight body had slumped fully against his leg.

She had drifted to sleep.

The first time she had slept in front of him, he had not dared to touch her hair. Even as he had laid his cloak upon her, he had done his best not to touch her. He feared if he began to sweep his fingertips along her soft hair, he would never be able to stop. Now, he wanted nothing more than to let her stay there, feeling her warmth through his trousers and her hair beneath his fingertips, but her coach should have arrived by now. She needed to get home safely before the flooding made the streets impassable.

He bent down and shook the curve of her shoulder, trying to ignore the line of her neck dipping beneath the blanket. She woke, raising her head to look up at him, and he held his breath at the sight of her at his feet.

"I… fell asleep?" she murmured, blue eyes a bit blurry.

"You did." He willed himself to move, easing around her to stand and head for the door, pulling on his cloak. "The hour grows late. I will check on your carriage. I suggest you take your clothes to the bedroom and get dressed there." He detested the gruff nature of his tone, but there was nothing to be done about it. He needed her gone before he made any more mistakes. Most importantly, he needed her _dressed._

She nodded and rose, holding the blanket tightly closed in front of her. Taking one last look at her, he replaced his hat, tugged it down low, and strode from the room.

The rain was still coming down hard, as it had been when he had left to send for a cab. On the curb, a driver waited with his carriage, his horse stamping impatiently in the downpour. Erik spoke briefly with the man, handing him enough money to keep him waiting, pay for Christine's ride wherever she wanted to go, and even a little extra for his silence in case that was necessary.

When Erik came back inside the apartment, Christine was gone, as were her clothes. He could faintly hear her getting dressed inside the bedroom, and she emerged as he was stoking the fire.

She gave him a slight hint of a smile, smoothing her hands over her stiff skirts. At least they were no longer dripping wet. "Is my ride here?"

"Indeed." She came to stand near him, and he pressed a bill into her hand. "For his tip when you arrive safely."

"I have my own money, Erik."

He ignored her until she took the banknote. "Perhaps I should ride with you. I do not like the thought of you alone in this rain."

She shook her head. "It is bad enough the driver has seen you." Her eyes roamed over his face, and he resisted the urge to cover his marred cheek. "What will you do now?" she asked softly.

She wanted to know how soon he could get out of town? He pushed aside his irritation at that. "I need to gather necessary supplies before I can leave. I have some funds here, enough for clothes and food, but I will need more before I can travel." He hesitated, not wanting to ask for more of her help. However… "Would you be willing to do something else for me?"

"Of course."

He headed to a small desk in the corner, pulling out a piece of paper. The ink was stale and half-dried, but there was enough to write a brief note. He scribbled for a moment, then folded the paper, handing it to her. He had no seal, but he did not care much if she read it.

"Would you give this to the Daroga? I would send it myself, but I fear the gendarmerie would intercept if they still watch him."

She plucked the paper from his fingers, tucking it into her satchel. "He will be happy to hear you are alive."

He scoffed at that. "Perhaps."

The two of them stood there for a while, facing each other with a hundred possible words floating between them. She had not yet put on her gloves. To his horror, Christine reached out and laid a hand on his arm, and he flinched with a sudden desire to flee her probing eyes.

"Please, eat and take care of yourself. Send word to Monsieur Khan before you leave," she added, voice infinitely soft. "I… would like to say goodbye."

He removed her hand from his arm and bent over it, believing he must have imagined the sharp intake of breath that came from her. Careful to angle his mouth, he pressed the normal side of his lips to the smooth back of her hand. If nothing else, let him take this moment from her.

"As you wish," he murmured, straightening.

Her blue eyes were aglow with some kind of light. He escorted her down the stairs and stood in the doorway, hidden mostly by shadows lest the driver remember his appearance too well. She climbed into the carriage and raised a hand to him as she pulled away. He would have stood there long after she vanished, but he did not want to risk being seen by any of the other tenants in this building.

Climbing the stairs, he entered his empty apartment. Even after so many years living beneath the Populaire, he had never felt so alone.

Christine already missed the warmth of sitting by Erik's fire as the damp night air began to seep back into her tired limbs. She was groggy from falling briefly asleep with her head resting against his knee; she could not accept that she had done that. How had she even felt that… comfortable?

Erik's temper often terrified her. She could grow used to his face, _had_ already begun to merely see the twists of his skin as a part of what made him _him_ , but the way he could fly into a rage was something she had to always guard against. She had thought she could convince him to relax around her, to reassure him that his visage did not matter, but he did not believe her. In fact, her insistence had only angered him further.

She had no idea of the hour, but it must be late for there were few other carriages on the flooded streets. She did not dare to venture to Nadir Khan's apartment during the day, and he was mostly on the way, so she asked the driver if he would take a slight detour. He obliged after the promise of extra payment, and soon, she was pulling up outside Khan's home, the Tuileries Gardens at her back.

"I'll be just a moment," she told the driver, hopping down herself.

She made her way to the second floor and knocked upon Nadir's door. After waiting a few seconds, she knocked again, this time louder. The last thing she wanted was to wake his neighbors and cause a stir, but she did not know when she could sneak out at night again.

 _Come on, Monsieur Khan!_

Trying not to panic, she raised her hand to knock a third time and heard stumbling footsteps within.

"A moment!" Nadir's voice called, muffled with sleep.

A bolt slid across the door and it cracked open a fraction, revealing the Persian standing there blinking in the light of a lantern he held aloft. He wore a maroon dressing robe with gold embroidery on the shoulders and chest. His dark eyes widened when he saw her, and to her surprise, he grabbed onto her wrist with a broad hand and jerked her into his apartment, closing the door behind her.

He set the lantern on a table and stood there, cursing in Persian and pinching the bridge of his nose. "You must be truly insane, Miss Daaé, to come here again, this time at nearly midnight."

"I _am_ sorry, Monsieur Khan." She really was not. "I shall not stay long." She produced Erik's note from her purse and handed it to him.

Silently, he took it with a questioning glance at her. He read Erik's characteristically sloping handwriting, then fisted the paper in one hand. "Where did you get this?"

She tried not to beam at him and likely failed. "You know where."

"Dear girl!" He barked a laugh that was half relief and half incredulousness. "How did you manage it? Ah, don't tell me! I would rather wrangle the story from his own words when I see him."

He stalked over to a table and spread the rumpled paper on top of it, staring down at the writing once again, his eyes wide, his energy palpable.

"What does it say?" she asked.

"You did not read it?" At her shake of her head, he slapped the back of his hand against the paper. "The man wants his money – his _money_! In fact, he demands that I help him gather it up in gold bars so that he may take it with him posthaste. He even said that: gold bars, posthaste."

Christine knew why Erik wanted his money and quickly, and she forced another smile. "How do you intend to do such a thing?"

"Not _posthaste_ , for certain, not until the police are off my scent. This may take weeks."

She chewed on the edge of her lip. _Weeks_ until Erik could leave France? Why did the thought of him staying in the city a mere carriage-ride away make her nervous? She had relaxed when she thought he would be out of her life permanently in a matter of days. Now, she trembled at the reality that he could show up at any moment. Did he know where she stayed? For years, this man had made it his business to know her every move – why would he suddenly stop after she had escaped him?

 _"I let you go._ " He had spoken those words when she had first found him in the crypt, and she had felt so sure that he would continue to let her go whenever she had to part ways with him. However, the longer he would linger here in Paris, the less sure she became of his intentions. He had made his feelings for her clear; why should he continue to avoid her?

"Monsieur Khan," she said, taking a shaky step toward the door. "I must bid you goodnight."

He nodded at her, only half paying attention. The Persian was scribbling across a new piece of parchment, muttering under his breath about _aliases_ and the complexity of the Parisian banking system. Christine understood only half of it, and so she let herself out, hurrying back to her awaiting carriage.

It was less than ten minutes to Raoul's home, but that time seemed to stretch and linger into long moments that became to her too much time to process her circumstances. Her clothes were still damp, her hair hanging limply about her face, her fingers and toes becoming frozen once more inside her wet gloves and cold boots. She pulled her cloak righter about her shoulders, but the heavy wool stank of rain and sewer.

As they pulled alongside the de Chagny residence, her pulse skipped when she saw the lights that flickered in the windows on the bottom floor. No one should be awake at this hour, especially considering it was mid-week, and she stood no possibility of being able to sneak inside if the lights were on.

She did not have a chance. As soon as the driver brought the horse up short, causing a loud whinny from the beast, the front door opened and out came the butler, the old man's face carefully blank. Without looking at her, he climbed up a step and spoke in the driver's ear.

"Hold a moment, man. The Master wants a word."

Christine was starting to shake, and when a footman opened her carriage door for her, she thought her legs would not hold her up. She took the young man's proffered hand in order to climb out, and her knees nearly buckled as her feet found the cobblestones. She barely noticed that the rain had stopped sometime on her ride back. The weather seemed like such a distant detail now.

As she stepped, squinting indelicately in the bright light of several gaslamps, strong, warm arms engulfed her. Raoul hugged her fiercely to his chest, saying her name over and over. She could feel the panic coming off him in waves, his heart a quick tattoo under her ear.

"I-I am sorry," she blurted. "Have you been up this whole time?"

He pulled back enough to examine her, and she allowed this intrusion, even as he pulled back the hood of her cloak and smoothed her hair away from her face. "Good God, Christine! I have been dying of worry for hours. We heard you had left in the evening without telling anyone where you had gone. I had no idea where you were!"

A voice cleared his throat. Raoul's father stood there, his brows draw together, his face red with anger. "Riding about at night at this hour, _alone_ , or at least we hope."

She was cold and tired and hardly in any mood to be chided by someone who was not her own father. "I am not a child," she snapped, shrugging out of Raoul's arms. "I went to visit _my_ father's grave."

The man bristled, but Raoul held up his hands, trying to placate him. Then Raoul clasped her shoulders. "In this rain? The streets are flooding everywhere, Christine. You could have been caught in it."

"I _am_ sorry to have made you worry, but I wanted to see him. I needed to- to speak with him." Not completely a lie. She _had_ gone to visit with her father, though Gustave Daaé's resting place had only been the first stop of her night.

Raoul's father grabbed his hat, shoving it atop his head. "We shall see what the driver of your carriage says. An easy way to see if you are lying."

Christine's breath caught in her throat. The man could easily say where she had been picked up; he could relay where he had briefly stopped. In a matter of seconds, Raoul would know she had visited Nadir Khan. Worse yet, he would know Erik's present location. She stepped forward to stop Raoul's father, but Raoul caught her hand, shaking her head.

Tears stung her eyes. Did her own fiancé not believe her? Of course, he really should _not_ trust her, should he? Here she was, lying to his face about where she had been. Ever since that horrible night at the opera, she had told one untruth after another, never ceasing, never trying to make sure her actions were worthy of being told directly. If Raoul found out where she had truly been, he would never forgive her.

His father returned, and she heard the sounds of the carriage pulling away. "The man collaborated with your story," he said, seeming almost disappointed at the knowledge. "He says he took you to the graveyard across the city and back again. The flooding made your travel slow."

Oh, _why_ had the man lied for her? She remembered Erik saying he had paid for her ride – had he also given extra for the man's silence? She was so relieved that more tears welled up, and she let them flow, unable to hold them back under the weight of her exhaustion.

Raoul mistook her relief and gave her another firm hug. "Oh my darling, forgive me for doubting you. How frightened you must have been."

Yes, she had been so frightened, with Erik's body pressing her against the frigid stone of a building, shielding her from a pickpocket. She had been frightened with his steady breath in her ear, reassuring her that she was safe. She had been frightened when he had carried her across the sewer, his long arms strong and sure around her. She had been frightened when he had begged her to stay and dry herself in front of his fire.

"Please," she whispered. "May I go upstairs now?"

She felt his father's stare follow them, but she ignored him. Raoul's concern was obvious, the way he held her arm, his blue eyes sweeping over her face. Guilt overwhelmed her, and she cried even harder. He stopped at her door, propriety demanding he not go in, and took out a handkerchief to gently dab at her cheeks.

"Please do not cry,' he said tenderly. "I would have gone with you tonight if you had asked. Why didn't you, Christine?"

She shook her head. "I needed to be alone. That is all. Things have been so chaotic, I have not known which way is up or down."

He crouched a bit to be able to meet her downcast eyes. She hated seeing the concern written across his face. She felt like she should at least _want_ to tell him the truth, to confess what kind of evening she'd had tonight, but her only thought was _keep him safe_. If she told Raoul what she had truthfully been doing, she knew he would immediately send for the gendarmerie to hunt Erik down.

"I am here for you," he said. "You know that, right?"

She sniffed. "I do."

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, his lips soft and slightly damp. She remembered what another set of lips, dry and cool and firm, had felt against the back of her hand. Squeezing Raoul's arm, she fled into her room, hearing his admission of "I love you" chase her heels. She pretended to not hear him as she closed her door hastily behind her.

More tears fell, and she hated them, could not stop them. She tore off her soggy clothes, layer after layer, and tossed them in a heap. Not wanting to wake Annette, she donned her woolen wrapper and rushed across the hall to run her own bath as hot as she could make the water. When the tub was full, she stepped in, not caring if the water scalded her icy skin. Soon, her toes and fingers were bright red from the heat, and she scrubbed her body down with her favorite soap, the scent of flowers strong in the air.

When she finally could drag her tired body to bed, she pulled the heavy blankets to the top of her face, burying herself in a cocoon of warmth. Instead of Raoul's blue eyes, she saw golden brown. Instead of warm, soft fingertips, she felt the cold, solid strength of her Maestro's calloused grip.

That night, she dreamt not of Raoul, her handsome fiancé, but of Erik. An angel no longer, he tore off his mask and loomed over her in bed, his eyes blazing, the irregular lines of his deformed cheek stark against the candlelight. In her dream, she felt the heavy weight of his body press her into the bed, the points of his hips digging into hers, one of his hands more caress than threat lightly about her throat, the other running down the length of her body. She cupped his enflamed cheek, felt the dips and lines that should never be present on a human face. He bent and his lips swallowed her voice before she could speak, his mouth fully upon hers, thin lips combined with bloated skin.

His hand continued to the hem of her skirts, shoving the layers of heavy material upward, cool air hitting her ankles. She wore nothing underneath, and so easily he slipped his fingers along her skin, skating past her calve, past her knee, past her thigh. His lips kissed their way to her ear, and his angel's voice rumbled within her.

 _Christine, I love you_.

She awoke to the gray light of early dawn, a sheen of sweat across her skin and a pooling ache between her legs. She lay there, feeling the pulsing slowly ebb within her, until Annette tapped upon her door with a breakfast tray.

She could not bear to be with Raoul after her betrayal of a dream, so she begged off the morning to herself, reminding him that she promised Meg she would visit. She did not miss the hurt that flashed across his face, nor that he spoke privately to the stagecoach driver, no doubt making certain that Christine actually traveled to the Opera Populaire's boarding house.

Meg's enthusiasm was exactly what Christine needed that morning, and her friend did not disappoint, shrieking with delight as soon as she opened the door and saw Christine, throwing her arms around Christine's neck.

Madame Giry was also there, in the midst of setting on tea for the three of them. She gave Christine a curt nod, which Christine returned, no longer as furious with the older woman. Christine understood at least a little about why Madame Giry had sent Raoul into the Phantom's lair after her. Christine had not forgotten that the ballet mistress had refused to participate in the Don Juan plot against Erik.

"Good morning, Madame," Christine said politely.

Madame Giry sighed. "Antoinette, if you please. I am no longer your instructor, after all."

"Will you not come back to the opera?" Meg asked, eyes pleading. "We haven't seen each other in days, and the distance between us is so upsetting."

Christine sat with Meg, clasping the other girl's hands in hers. "I could not stand to see the way everyone would look at me. I can never go back there. Surely you understand why."

"Still," Meg said, sniffing. "How can you just _stop_ singing? Your voice was heavenly, unlike anything I have ever heard."

"What other choice do I have?"

"Actually…"

The Girys exchanged a meaningful glance between them, at which Christine frowned.

"What? What are you two hiding from me?"

Meg began to positively thrum with excitement, tossing her blonde hair over a shoulder. "Do you remember months ago, when we wrote a bunch of letters together? It was after a particularly nasty run-in with Carlotta, I think after she accused you of hiding her wig, and she found it later strung up a catwalk?"

Christine remembered the incident. Looking back, it was obvious that the Opera Ghost had decided to have a little cruel fun with the diva. She nodded. "I remember! We sent them to how many opera houses? Six?"

"Eight, actually." Antoinette was shooting them a disapproving frown, but Meg just shrugged. "Maman, we have already talked about this. At the time, we did it to cheer up Christine, _and_ it worked."

"It did, actually. I lived on those fantasies of running away to a different opera house for weeks afterward." She tilted her head to the side, considering. "But why are you bringing this up now?"

Meg's face split into a wide grin, and she dashed off to grab a small envelope from the desk in the corner. She brought it back to the divan and sat on the edge, nearly bouncing on her toes. "This came for you a few days ago."

Christine took the envelope, the edges dirty as though it had traveled a long way. In an elegant sloping script, her name and old address were scrawled across the front. On the back, the elegant handwriting continued:

The Academy of Music

126 E 14th St

New York, NY

She gasped. "From America!"

Meg was still grinning as she held out a letter opener. "New York _is_ located there, or have you forgotten you wrote them?"

"Oh, but that was ages ago." Christine found her face was flushed, her hands starting to shake. "I cannot open it!" She shoved the envelope at Meg. "Do it for me, please!"

Meg laughed and sliced open the top of the paper, pulling out a folded sheet from within and opening it. She took a deep breath, then blew it out quickly. "I can't read this! Maman!"

Antoinette sighed and took the letter from her. "They wrote back in Italian. What language did you write your letter in?"

"French," Christine said, blushing. "And, uh, Swedish on the back."

Perching small spectacles atop her nose, Antoinette began to read, "Dear Miss Christine Daaé. We of the esteemed New York Academy of Music are delighted to receive your letter. While we are not in the habit of accepting unsolicited auditions, especially from voices about which we have never heard, we are in the process of seeking outside talent to expand our repertoire. We could not guarantee a main role at this time, but we are interested in hearing what your bel canto voice would have to offer. If you wish to pursue an audition, please contact us should you ever sail to our resplendent city. Sincerely yours, Lamberto Montresor."

Christine found herself unable to draw a deep breath, her heart racing wildly within her chest, the fine hair on her arms raised. "Did… did Monsieur Montresor truly write that?"

"Yes, he did," Antoinette replied, skimming the letter once more before removing her spectacles and fixing Christine with a steely gaze. "You must reply at once with your decline."

"What? Why?" Meg exclaimed, eyes wide. "Why would she do such a thing? Christine, you are going to accept, aren't you? Why would she not?"

Both women looked at Christine for a reply, and she struggled to force out a breath so she could speak. "Because I am to be married," she whispered, her own words sounding far away from her body, as though someone else was speaking them. "I could not possibly go to New York. Not now."

Antoinette's stare softened. "Now that the offer has been extended, you must give him a timely reply so that your reputation as an artist is not damaged, should you choose to ever sing again."

"Ever sing again…" Christine echoed. "Why… why would I stop singing?"

She did not miss the look the two women exchanged. She wished they would stop doing that, sharing thoughts and opinions without offering them to her.

"Oh Christine," Meg said, squeezing her hand. "I can't imagine having to make the choice between what you love and _who_ you love, but Raoul… well, he is a good man, isn't he? And he loves you so much, and you love him." She gave a small, strained laugh. "In a way, you are lucky! You get to leave all the drama of the stage behind and move on with your life with a handsome, kind man at your side. And with everything that is now happening at the Populaire's new museum, you will be glad to leave it behind!"

"All that is happening?" Confused, she looked at the both of them. "New museum? What are you talking about?"

At that, Antoinette stood, moving to pour them all tea. "I warned Messieurs Firmin and André against such a thing, but they will not listen to me any longer. I fear our time at the opera is also coming to the end." She paused as she set three cups to steep, slowly and thoughtfully arranging sugar and cream on a tray. "Believe me, Christine, if I could have stopped them, I would have."

Feeling shaky, Christine rose, gloved hands fisted at her sides. "Please explain. _What museum?"_

"When the mob invaded the Opera Ghost's home," Meg said, her discomfort obvious as she twisted a long lock of her hair, "they destroyed much of what was there. I-I saw the pieces they brought up, the smashed organ, the planks of a boat, torn clothing." Christine understood the phrasing Meg used – she still did not want her mother to know that she herself had followed Raoul underground, ahead of the mob. Christine still had Erik's white mask hidden in her room, which Meg had given her.

Christine clinched her hands tighter, feeling her nails bit her skin even through the fine leather of her gloves. "Why would they do such a thing?"

"Just yesterday, we saw the excavation of the Ghost's home," Antoinette said. As she spoke, she mixed the three cups of tea. "I advised them against such desecration, but they would not listen. What was it they said? 'Gossip is worth its weight in gold?' I believe they intend to capitalize upon the Populaire's recent scandal, especially now that Carlotta has gone back to Italy."

Meg chewed the side of her lip. "They have taken everything they could carry out and set it up in the entrance hall to the Populaire. Just yesterday, I saw the mockup of a flyer they intend to publish in the paper next week. They… they are calling it the _Opera Ghost and His Diva_."

Stunned, Christine could do nothing more than stand there a moment, her thoughts spinning. She had never imagined that the mob might take Erik's belongings after he had fled, and she certainly could not have predicted that Firmin and Moncharmin would actively humiliate her in this way. She had never been a willing participant in everything that had happened at the opera, had never done anything to hurt any of them. And now they would do such a thing to her?

"A diva, am I?" she spat, starting to quake with anger. "I suppose they have set up the wedding veil I left down there? His hat and cloak? His sheet music?"

"And your Aminta costume," Meg said, pressing a hand to her own throat in nervous despair. "Oh Christine, I am so sorry."

But Christine shook her head. "No pity. I cannot stand anymore _pity_." When she drew back her shoulders and looked Antoinette in the eye, the older woman met her gaze evenly. "I suggest you stay here, Madame. I would like you to be able to deny my next actions."

As though expecting such a reaction, the ballet mistress merely nodded. "Take care you are not seen."

"I am not concerned with such matters," Christine said, tying her cloak under her chin as Meg raced to gather up her own cloak and boots. "After all, I am the owner of some of these items, and the other owner is dead." Oh, how easily she told the lie, now that she did it to protect him. She stood straight, head held high. "I will not allow them to profit from my own life, especially when I no longer work for them. Meg, are you coming? You do not have to."

The other woman's eyes sparkled with mischief and more than a little sadness. "You're my best friend. Of course I will help."

They both drained their cups of tea, which had long since cooled, and set out into the bright sun, the first rays warm on their faces after a long day of rain.

* * *

 **Next: well, I can't say without spoilers! :)**


	8. Holy Palmers' Kiss

**Please let me know what you think about this longer-than-usual chapter! :)**

* * *

 **Chapter 8: Holy Palmers' Kiss**

The sunlight almost hurt her eyes, unused to the brightness as she was after so many days of cloudiness this winter. Christine and Meg hurried through the streets, which were crowded with Parisians out enjoying a stroll in the sun. They had to watch their step to avoid puddles, and evidence of the previous night's flooding still covered some streets. The two women spoke little, their quick steps the only sounds they made as they weaved in and out of other groups wandering about.

The boarding house was close to the Populaire, so it took them only a few minutes to reach the exquisitely-designed gray-white building looming in the distance. Christine knew few people would be inside the opera house at this early hour, perhaps only someone completing a repair on the seating and… the managers.

The brisk walk over had done nothing to cool her temper. She stormed across the road, Meg close on her heels, and entered through one of the side doors. Meg yelped a bit when the door swung open so quickly that it banged the side of the interior wall.

Christine did not spare her a glance, her attention focused. "Where?"

"The lobby," Meg said, a bit breathless. "Just beyond the box office."

"Beyond where patrons must pay to see it," Christine sneered, her tone unrecognizable to her own ears. She did not care. She tossed back her hood and stuffed her gloves in her satchel, taking the most direct route to the front vestibule of the opera house.

When she caught sight of Erik's cloak strung upon a mannequin, standing right before her, she gasped, stumbling in her effort to slow her fast pace. The rich black fabric, the exquisite embroidery upon the shoulders – she knew the garment well. So often, it had enshrouded Erik's broad shoulders, hiding his body from her view or concealing his presence in the darkness. She reached out a trembling hand to touch the sleeve.

Beneath the cloak, someone had placed a full set of Erik's attire on the mannequin. He wore the same formal clothes every time she had seen him, the uniform of a man dressed to attend the opera. Her face flushed with mortification and anger at the thought that strangers had gone through his clothing and arranged it thusly here. They felt this display was justified, that if the Opera Ghost was going to invade their lives and wreak havoc, they should at least profit from the ensuing rumormongering.

She heard Meg following her, but the ballet dancer kept wisely silent, staying close enough to support her but far enough away to give her breathing space. Ears buzzing, Christine swung her wide eyes over the other items arranged in display fashion in the hall. Beyond Erik's clothing was the body of a mannequin arranged with her Aminta dress, complete with the wedding veil that Erik had once shoved atop her hair.

A large traveling trunk stood at the bottom of the mannequins, the top of it carved in ornate designs, the dark wood trimmed in bronze.

Piles of other artifacts lay strewn about with hastily-written cards set in front of them, as though labeling them for an audience. One pile of what looked like driftwood stated, "Vessel of the Mysterious Underground Lake," while another, complete with a small pile of long ivory keys said, "The Phantom's Instrument." Looking at the pieces of Erik's magnificent organ, which had once entranced and delighted her, made her sick; she had to look away quickly.

More props from _Don Juan Triumphant_ were arranged on a small table: the goblet from which she had sipped, the robe first Piangi and then Erik had worn. She walked over to look and saw letters Erik himself had penned – mostly gruff stage and casting directions, dating back years, as well as the one letter that mentioned her just before _Don Juan_.

Lying next to these pieces of paper, a thick stack of parchment contained within a deep red leather cover captured her eye. She took a step toward it, but Meg caught her hand, halting her.

A moment later, Christine heard Monsieur Firmin call out, "Christine Daaé! What a surprise to see you here. Gilles, come here!" He craned his head back to yell behind him. "Gilles!"

Meg tugged on Christine's hand, urging her back. "Let's go."

"Not yet."

Christine stood firm, chin up, as Monsieur André joined them, some kind of business paperwork still clenched in his hand. The man's eyes widened as he saw who was in the internal lobby, which curved around the entrances to the private boxes in the auditorium.

"Miss Daaé!"

"Messieurs," Christine replied, voice calm and cold. "I see you have wasted no time in trying to profit off tragedy."

That brought them both up short, knocking off any pleasant expressions they'd had. If they had legitimately believed she would greet them warmly, they were bigger fools than she already believed them to be.

"Hardly what I would call this, Miss Daaé," Firmin spluttered.

"What _would_ you call it, then?"

The two men stared at each other, mouths hanging open like fish. They took too long to formulate a reply, so she let go of Meg's hand and stalked over to the Don Juan robes.

"What would Signor Piangi think of such a display?" she spat, gesturing at the garment. "You string up his costume for your own profit, just like you have done mine."

André spread his hands. "We _honor_ his memory, Miss Daaé. Nothing more! La Carlotta herself gave her blessing before she parted from the company, and-"

"No doubt she did," Christine interrupted. "It is not _her_ name being used to stir up gossip, nor her name being used alongside such a farce as though she had been a willing accomplice."

"Miss Daaé," Firmin began, "you participated in this charade of an opera as much as-"

Meg jumped in, eyes flashing. "She only participated because you made her!"

Christine shot her a grateful look. "Participated, yes, I did participate. I was never, however, given any choice in the matter. You want to publish an advertisement for this gross display? I can as easily publish my own admonition of both of your actions here."

"Now, really, let's discuss this like adults," Firmin said, starting to backpedal.

"I am done discussing anything with you. What I _shall_ do now is take what is rightfully mine." She moved with quick, determined steps to the trunk, throwing open its lid. Inside, she caught sight of a variety of articles of clothing – large swatches of stiff black fabric, accessories wrapped in fine silk, and the hint of silk underthings beneath it all. Her face heated as she realized she was staring at Erik's private collection of clothes, but she did not slam the lid closed.

Instead, she turned to the table of writings and began to stack them into a pile while both managers lunged toward her, protesting. Meg jumped between her and the men, who brought themselves up short, shouting at her to stop.

"Miss Daaé, see reason!" André snapped.

She looked over her shoulder at him. "Actually, I am. I feel it is perfectly reasonable that these objects not be put on public display in an effort to avoid my own humiliation." Turning her back to him once again, she took the pile of letters and placed them in the trunk. Then, she began to pick up other objects and also lay them inside – the goblet from _Don Juan_.

Firmin stamped his foot. "I must insist you stop this at once! We have as much right to these things as you do!"

She swung around on him, stalking over to stand in front of him and shoving a finger into his chest. " _You_ placed me upon that stage, and _you_ will not profit from it."

André choked indignantly. "If I recall correctly, mademoiselle, it was your own Vicomte de Chagny who first developed the plot to use you as bait."

Christine flinched as though he had just thrown a glass of water in her face. He was right, though. She had been there when Raoul, first denying they could make her sing, had beseeched with her to join in on the _Don Juan_ scheme. He had guessed Erik would attend if she sang, and even though she had pleaded with him to change his mind, he had remained steadfast that his plan would work. Instead, Piangi had been killed, Raoul had almost followed her to his death, and Christine had thrown herself at Erik in order to save the man she thought she loved.

The man she thought she loved.

Christine staggered back. In a burst of rage, she swept Erik's black cloak from the shoulders of the mannequin, wadded it into a quick fold, and stuffed it into the trunk as well. She did the same to the wedding veil. Finally, she laid her eyes once again upon the sheets of paper held within the red leather binding. She knew what it was – the original copy of _Don Juan_ , which Erik had hurled into the managers' hands during the masquerade ball. And she knew what would be found within those pages – Erik's own sloping penmanship. When she picked it up, it felt heavy within her shaking hands.

She placed the composition into the trunk and closed the lid, flicking the latch. At her back, the managers fumed, but she ignored them. "Give me a hand?" she asked Meg.

"Miss Giry, if you commit this act of theft," Firmin threatened, "you will never work in this theatre again!"

Meg cast Christine a worried look, but Christine had been ready for such a response. "My fiancé is still your patron, is he not? I wonder how you might feel about losing such a valued donation amount, especially during a time when you need to draw in not only a new soprano, but a tenor and half of your ballet company." She looked Firmin directly in the eyes, spine straight. "We will be taking our leave now. Treat my Meg well. Stay out of the papers. And for God's sake, you will never lay eyes on me again, so enjoy your pieces of wood and broken chandelier."

With that, she spun on her heel and grabbed one handle of the chest. Meg scrambled to pick up the other end, and the two women mustered their strength to carry the trunk through the front doors of the opera house. It was not heavy, but the larger size made carrying it with dignity difficult. The door swung shut behind them as they entered the late morning sunlight. If the managers left gaping at them had any parting words, she did not hear them.

* * *

Erik had slept restlessly that night after Christine and he had parted ways. His mind, always busy, had spun out in different directions, part of him contemplating how to best rebuild his basic necessities in life, while another pondered almost wistfully if Daroga would heed his request for funds or merely ignore his short letter.

Waking early, he had spaced the floor of his small apartment. He had found a single change of clothing here, as well as a few toiletries, most almost unusable with age. After prying up the floorboards under the single bed, he had discovered a store of bills and coins that would serve him well over the coming week. With this, he could at least start to formulate his plan to leave the city… indeed, to leave the country. However, he would not survive long without the rest of his money.

When night fell, perhaps he could venture out to procure food, in the very least.

The morning passed with increasing irritation. For the past four years, he had been able to move about the opera house as he wished. Now, confined as he was to this two-room flat, he could feel his own restlessness building. Yes, he would have to escape into the night for at least a brief excursion. His sanity was held together with little else at the moment.

 _Why_ had he not thought to leave reading materials here? He would even stomach some Charles Dickens tripe in its original English, with its bloated plot and overwrought characters.

He had taken to pacing the floor again when he heard the pad of two sets of boots down the hallway. From the lightness, he gathered they were either women or children, and from the scuffing of their shoes, they seemed to be carrying something heavy. He eased on silent feet to the door, pressing his back against the wall to the side of the frame. One of his hands crept inside his right pocket, fingertips feeling for the piece of catgut he always kept there.

The footsteps paused when they came in front of his door, and the thump of something – a box, a crate – sounded as they set it down abruptly upon the wooden floor. Gasps escaped them, and he was certain they were women, that they had not meant to make such noise. And he was certain that he recognized the both of them.

A knock sounded upon his door, a quick, panicked rap. Then, the two women fled down the hallway.

Erik waited until long past when they had vanished before he cracked open the door. There, on the floor, stood his traveling trunk, the mahogany wood, bronze fastenings, carved design on the lid, all details he recognized as his. He dragged the chest into the apartment and closed the door behind him.

Within, he found the contents mostly untouched except for his cloak thrown on top of everything else. How Christine had dragged this chest from within the bowels of his lair, he had no idea. However, as he dug within the clothes and found one of his favorite novels within, the pages stained and bent with use, he felt a loose grin tug at his lips.

At least he had this. He would have to thank her properly soon.

* * *

Hands grasping at each other, half in fright and half in excitement, the two young women bolted down the hallway, down the stairs, and back into the warm day that was quickly developing outside. They didn't stop until they had thrown themselves into the awaiting cab, staring at each other with wild eyes and lips drawn back in what might have been grins.

"Good lord, Christine!" Meg panted, as the other woman tapped a frantic palm on the wall of the carriage to get them going again. "Couldn't you have warned me that we were taking that chest to someone's _home_?"

Christine looked at least a little guilty. "I was afraid you would back out," she admitted.

"You know me better than that." Meg glared at her, but she wasn't truly mad. "Who lives there? Or is that yet another secret I'm not allowed to know?"

It had been an impulsive decision to return Erik's trunk to him, and thus give away his location to Meg. The ballet dancer had always been terrified of anything concerning the Phantom, and the first to shriek at any hint he might be nearby. And yet, Meg had given her Erik's white mask…

Christine faced her on the bench of the carriage. "I cannot tell you," she said, pointing at the driver who was no doubt listening. She dropped her voice to a whisper, "For the safety of who lives there."

Eyes now huge, Meg leaned closer and hissed, "You can't be serious! What kind of nonsense are you mixed up in now?"

Christine wanted nothing more than to tell her friend everything that had happened over the past few days. But the fact that Erik was alive was not her story to give up, and she was not ready to disclose everything she had done to help him. Although she knew Meg loved her with the fierceness of a sister, she was not sure how the other girl would react.

"Please, just drop it," she said, as the carriage began to slow.

The driver pulled up alongside their next stop: a reclusive spot near the Seine. Christine left the _Don Juan_ composition inside the cab but took the wedding veil and chalice. The two of them climbed out and hurried to the water's edge. Many people were out enjoying the sunshine today, so they had to wait a while before they were alone.

Christine tied the wedding veil around the handle of the cup. Both items had such terrible memories for her. One had been an instrument she had used when she had been forced upon the stage, her voice taken from her control and twisted in a trap laid for Erik. She hadn't wanted to sing as Aminta. She hadn't wanted to participate in a badly laid-out plot to ensnare her maestro. But despite all of the fear and hesitation, she had been drawn to the moment on the stage when the world had fallen away and left behind only a man and a woman. They had sung together, and she had pretended to drink from the chalice, the pretend wine a symbol of his seduction of her. Even in his opera, Erik had believed she could not be subdued without coercion, without alcohol loosening Aminta's inhibitions.

He had never been able to come to her merely as a man.

At least, not until that concluding moment between them that night: _Christine, I love you_. How many times would those words still haunt her before they finally faded from her memory?

She shook her head against the memories and tightened the veil around the heavy cup, aware of Meg's concerned look. She had only worn the veil for mere seconds before she had torn it from her head, but she hated everything about it – the scratchy fabric, the reminder of what he had wanted to take from her. He had wanted her maidenhood, freely given or not, and in return had offered her the knowledge that their joining would have been a first for him as well.

He had never been good at _asking_ , had he?

Shuddering, she glanced around to ensure they were alone. "To new beginnings," she said, more for Meg's benefit than hers.

She threw the objects into the Seine.

She was aware of Meg shouldering up to her and taking her hand. The two of them watched as the muddy river, still bloated from the flooding rain, swallowed first the cup and then the trailing ends of the veil.

Sometime after they vanished, she felt Meg tug her back to the carriage. They climbed inside, and she heard Meg murmur to the driver to take them back to the boarding house. Christine pulled the _Don Juan_ composition from the bench in front of them and settled the weight of it upon her lap. She had left her gloves off, and the leather was cool and smooth beneath her hands. They rode in silence for a while, until Meg gave a small gasp beside her.

"Oh, Christine, you're crying!"

Christine pressed her fingertips to her cheeks, feeling the two damp tracks carved there by tears she did not realize were falling. She scrubbed at her face with her sleeve and gave a rueful laugh. "I am so _tired_ of all of this, Meg. Tired of crying, tired of thinking about the past." She took a handkerchief out of the bag at her wrist and blew her nose. She had a tickle in her throat that was not going away, and she hoped it was only due to her crying.

"I want to see you happy, my friend," Meg said. "Isn't Raoul helping?"

Christine didn't have the strength to tell Meg that Raoul had been absent much of the last week, and what comfort he had offered had been quickly given at most. She was beginning to suspect that he expected her to shrug off everything that had happened now that he believed it was all over. She muttered some excuse about how busy they both had been. She could tell this didn't satisfy Meg, but her friend let it go.

They pulled up to the boarding house near the Populaire. Christine didn't want to deal with Madame Giry seeing the composition she held, so she paid the driver and bid Meg farewell there on the street. Then, she headed at a slow pace back to Le Marais, the leather binding clutched to her chest.

She was still not certain what had possessed her to keep the original copy of _Don Juan_. She had not opened it to look upon the notes and words she knew would be within, all written by Erik's hand. While the company had been given copies to use during rehearsal, she had caught glimpses of the full, bound copy Erik had given the managers. She knew it had been painstakingly crafted, not just the music and libretto, but also complete with liner notes about scenes, characters, and staging. For years, Erik had worked on his opera, and he had only managed to finish it during the months he had vanished after Il Muto.

After he had sent the chandelier crashing down at her feet.

Everyone in Raoul's household was out to luncheon, as she knew they would have been. She hurried up to her room, feeling exhaustion starting to weigh her down. Burying the red leather of the composition in the bottom of her chest of undergarments, she tossed her aching body upon her bed.

It was just her luck that she would now fall ill.

She was grateful when Annette knocked upon her door in the evening to offer to help her dress for bed. Later, the lady's maid also brought up warmth broth and a glass of water to keep at her bedside. Her cold was in full bloom by the time darkness fell outside, and Christine spent the first part of the night wiping her nose and attempting to sleep.

At last, she drifted into a fitful doze, half in a haze caused by her cold and half her tired body giving up on lucid consciousness. So when she was awakened by a draft of cold air, her mind was not able to fully register from whence it came. In the summer, a screen might separate the bed from the large window that reached to the floor, to protect the linens from the dirtiness of outdoors when the window was opened. However, in the winter, there was no such need for a screen, and she had a direct line of sight.

As she blinked open bleary eyes, lids heavy with sickness and exhaustion, she saw that one half of the window was open, the curtains rustling softly in the cold breeze that was blowing in. There, standing on this side of the narrow balcony, was a dark figure.

He was enshrouded in a black cloak, his tall frame clad fully in shadow. She tried to rub her eyes to clear her vision, but her hand trembled with weakness. She heard a sharp intake of breath, and the figure stepped forward, the balcony window closing behind him with a click. The frigid breeze settled, but the draft had already chilled her. Her teeth began to rattle even as she tugged weakly at the blankets to bring them back to her chin. She was not shivering only from the cold.

"Erik?" she tried to ask, but her parched tongue stuck in her mouth.

The man, for she was sure it was at least a man, came closer, shoes silent upon the carpet near her bed, cloak swirling about his towering form. He wore all black, including his waistcoat and cravat, and a black mask covered most of his face, excluding his mouth, chin, and strong line of jaw. His black hair was combed carefully back, and somewhere far away she registered that he must have found a wig again.

She shrank back into the covers as he came to the side of her bed, his eyes dark as the night. As she watched, he struck a match and lit a single candle on the shelf nearby, tossing his face into flickering, glowing light.

"You fear me," he murmured.

His familiar voice, low and soft, calmed her somewhat, but still she shivered. She began to shake her head in response to his comment, but the motion made her vision swim. "Erik," she tried again, voice cracking on the word.

His eyes, now two mirrored pools of honeyed brown in the soft light, roamed over her before alighting back on hers. "What is the matter? The night is not that cool."

One of his hands, pale and sinewy, drifted to her shoulder, pausing then grasping the top of the blanket there, dragging it to her chin. Was her shoulder bare? It must have been because she felt the shock of the backs of his fingertips, the blunt scrap of fingernails, along that curve of her skin before the thick blanket covered her.

Suddenly, his whole hand was upon her forehead, palm pressed against her skin with such force that she gasped. Just as quickly, he snatched it back, and she immediately longed for the cool press of his flesh against hers.

"God damn it, Christine!" he spat with sudden vehemence. "You are sick!"

She wanted to speak to him, to reassure him that it was merely a cold. She reached out a shaking hand, trying to grasp the glass of water nearby. Lengthy fingers pale in the candlelight, he wound a hand around her bare wrist just above the cuff of her long sleeve. With utmost gentleness, he lowered her hand back to the bed before taking up the glass himself and offering it to her. She had to rise on an elbow to drink, at once aware that she was wearing only her nightdress. Her linen gown was thick fabric meant to keep out the cold winter air, but she wore nothing but her drawers and stockings beneath it.

The water loosened her tongue and eased the scratchiness in her throat. "Thank you," she said softly as she lowered back beneath the covers. She managed to tighten the neckline of her gown to prevent anymore slipping. "This is only a cold, Erik. I am fine."

He sank to a knee alongside her, cloak a shadowy puddle around him. "Brought on by our excursion in the rain, no doubt." She saw a muscle tense in his jaw, catching her attention and reminding her of the mask he wore.

Without thinking, her thoughts too muddy to caution her otherwise, she reached out again, this time to trace the Roman nose of the stiff black fabric. "What is this?" She did not miss the way he leaned back from her touch. She wondered if he would have prevented her from removing it.

"A trunk magically appeared outside my door this morning," he replied. His lips, thinned in agitation, softened, the smooth side tilting upward. "I don't suppose you know how?"

"No idea," she said, giving a drowsy, secretive smile.

"I thought not. In any case, I am much obliged to have many of my belongings returned to me. However, my white masks were too delicate to be kept within the trunk." He tapped the cheek of his black mask with one long finger. "Unlike this one."

"Ah." She turned her face into her pillow as a cough welled up. She was aware of his intense eyes on her, and as she began to wake more, she was more aware of the state of her undress and the fact that he was here, in her room, in the middle of the night. When her coughing subsided, she saw he held out her glass of water once again. She rose for another sip. He was too close in the dim glow of the candle. She laid back down, this time in such a way to put more distance between them.

"What are you doing here, Erik?"

"Indeed, only to thank you for my trunk." He climbed to his feet in one smooth motion. He had always been so graceful, so elegant. Dressed like he was ready for a night at the opera, he was magnificent - all long, dark limbs, the bits of his shirt she could see, the paleness of his hands and throat all she could perceive when he moved beyond the light of the single candle. "You are sick on my account. Let me aid you?"

"Erik-" She could not get out her protest as another cough cut her off. Her face ached as she grasped the handkerchief he handed her and wiped at her nose. "I am not that ill, I promise."

He ignored her. "I will return shortly with a treatment that shall help." Snuffing out her candle with his fingertips, he slipped back between the curtains, and the tall window closed quietly behind him.

She settled back into bed, pulling the blankets up so only her eyes peeked out. Erik had been here, _in her bedroom_ , and for a moment, the meeting had seemed so natural, so comfortable between them, as though they were meeting for tea rather than while she wore her nightdress. She should wait for him to come back so she was prepared. She should get up and put on her high-necked robe.

Instead, the stillness of the night beckoned her. Her eyelids drooped, and her cold dragged her back into sleep.

* * *

At three kilometers either way, this was not a quick trip. Even with his speed under the cover of darkness, he would take almost an hour to return to her side. He should have stayed at his apartment after he arrived and strode through the door. He was chilled from the night and still not completely recovered from his stay at the graveyard. While no longer dehydrated and weakened, he was not yet able to eat a full meal.

Not that food had been at the foremost of his mind since the weeks before _Don Juan_.

He shrugged his arms free of his cloak and found the vials he sought within his trunk. He did not know how Christine had come to possess his chest, the very one he might use for travel. Perhaps he would ask her if he cared to know. Luckily enough, it contained his medicine kit, a collection of drugs and other materials he used for whatever might ail him.

He did not know how long Daroga would take to collect enough funds for Erik to leave the city, but soon, he and Christine would be parted forever. He supposed continuing to linger in her presence might eventually lead him back into madness. The accidental brush of her soft shoulder against the backs of his fingers had nearly undone him. The warmth of her feverish skin under his palm would have driven him insane if his concern for her had not taken precedence.

He headed back into the night.

No matter if the gendarmerie might still be searching for signs of him. No matter if one encounter with another person while he was wearing a mask might stir up rumors of his existence once again. No matter that entering the de Chagny home in and of itself was an act of foolishness.

The sight of Christine's fever-flushed cheeks and the sound of her dry cough had been enough to propel him into action.

Crossing the city without incident, he climbed the water pipe to the second floor and squeezed onto the narrow balcony once again. He had left the window unlatched, so it was easy enough to slip back inside her bedroom. He was only here to deliver a remedy to ease her cold. Nothing more.

As he gazed at her slight form huddled beneath the blankets, her steady breathing and stillness revealed that she had fallen back asleep while he had been gone. Her nose was slightly runny, her hair damp and limp from her sweat. She was so beautiful that for a moment, he could not breathe. He should leave this house, but he strode noiselessly to the door that led to the hallway.

He heard no movement within the household. Steering his thoughts away from the contemplation that _he_ slept somewhere nearby – for the serious consideration of strangling the Vicomte is what had led to him discovering where he lived – Erik hurried to the bathroom down the hall. He held the washing basin from Christine's room in his hands. At this hour, the hot water should have been replenished from the water stores in the attic, and it took only moments to refill the basin he had emptied.

Christine had not shifted in her bed, and she did not stir when he pulled a small table to her side and placed the basin upon it. Taking the vials from one of his waistcoat pockets, he mixed two of the pungent concoctions together and cast a few drops into the steaming water, swirling them to distribute.

He did not want to wake her as she did need her rest, but he also knew the aroma from these bottles would aid in her swift recovery. The candle blazed back to life after he lit it. Bending down, he shook her shoulder, lips twitching when she murmured an annoyed protest.

"Christine," he called in a dulcet tone. "Up you get, my dear."

Her eyelashes fluttered, dark against her cheeks, and she blinked up at him. "You're back."

"Indeed." She yawned, the deep breath causing another cough to spasm her chest. He patiently waited for it to subside before gesturing at the basin at her side. "This will help."

She peered at the liquid. "Smells heavenly. At least… I think it does." She blew her nose on the handkerchief she still held… _his_ handkerchief. "What is it?"

"Eucalyptus and peppermint. A hint of lemon as well." He took the towel he had fetched and set it to the side of the bowl. "Lean over the bowl with the towel to trap the steam, and the fragrance will break up the congestion in your head and lungs."

She lifted on a straight arm, the loose strands of her hair brushing across her shoulders. Her white nightdress pooled around her, completely concealing her figure, but even so, he kept his eyes upon her face as much as his strength would allow. How often had he seen her in naught but her ballet costumes or her dressing gowns at the opera? Before she had known he was no angel, they had often performed their lessons at night, long after everyone else had gone home.

Of course, she knew he was now no angel, no disembodied voice. From the way she stared at him now, her thoughts seemed to follow the same path as his.

His own need to merely help her surprised even him.

"If you would but trust me, Christine. This will work only as long as the steam rises. Quickly now, before the water cools."

Her small hands pushed at the blankets until they crumpled at her waist. Her nightdress, tied at her collarbone, revealed little of her soft curves. However, when she shifted to the edge of the bed, the fabric caught tautly on her knees, revealing the two small peaks of her breasts. She must have felt the pull of her nightdress for she tugged at it to loosen the shape, a hitched breath escaping from between her parted lips.

He was startled to see tears causing a sheen to her eyes, which were cast in a green light by the candle. "May I?" he asked, and did not wait for an answer. With a quick jerk, he pulled the hem of her nightdress free so she could smooth the fabric as she wished unencumbered. He ignored the blush that caused her already pink cheeks to deepen into red. She scooted to the edge of the bed, sitting up and sliding her legs off the edge of the mattress.

The sight of her pale, bare feet slipping free of her nightdress and dangling just above the floor almost caused him to hiss between his teeth until he caught himself. That pale flesh glowed in the low light, the delicate bones of her ankles and tininess of her toes sending his heart skittering within his chest. He busied himself with stretching the towel across her head and placing a steadying hand at her elbow as she leaned forward.

"Deep breaths, now," he instructed, pleased that she did as he requested without argument. Eventually, the thickness her tears had caused waned, her breathing loosened. Her coughs sounded clearer, and she slumped over the basin with sloped, relaxed shoulders.

She was too close, the heat of her body seeping into his own chilled skin. An angel before him. He had never deserved to be hers, had he?

When she spoke, her voice sounded stronger, although her exhaustion was still evident. "Why are you here, Erik?"

He drew back as she pulled the towel from her head and patted her face dry. Yes, she was beautiful, her hair plastered about her face, her blue eyes red-rimmed. "Perhaps my intent has not been clear," he replied, his tone sharpening harsher than he had meant.

She gazed at him as though she saw right through his words. "We can't keep doing this. I-I am engaged to be married. You know that. Nothing has _changed_."

He moved stiffly away from her, pulling his cloak back around his shoulders, knowing it made him appear larger. She did not shrink back. "Of course not. God forbid I fetch you medicine. Perhaps I should have fetched your foppish lover instead?"

His words were biting, but still she did not react as though he was truly angry with her. Often, too many times, he had shouted at her during their voice lessons, berating her for being a few minutes late or when she did not achieve the perfection of which he knew she was capable. Back then, she had wilted before him, often begging for his forgiveness or vowing to try harder.

Now, she let him storm about the room before replying calmly, "Don't call him that."

He was at her side again, towering over her. She merely tilted her head up to maintain eye contact. "What? Foppish?"

She shook her head. "My lover. I… I have never been intimate with him." The fragrances must have loosened her tongue as well as cleared her head.

Falling to his knees at her feet, he clutched at the sheet that covered the mattress to keep from grasping onto the hem of her nightdress instead. "I find that difficult to believe," he sneered.

There was the sheen to her eyes again, the only sign he had wounded her. "Please," she whispered, breaking gazes with him and staring down at her slender hands grasping her knees. "I can't bear such harsh words from you tonight. Not right now. You have been so kind, bringing me what I needed, helping me. Can you not…" Her pink tongue darted out to wet her lips, and he shuddered violently. "Can you not be silent?"

He might have balked at her request, but she reached up and cupped his fabric-encased cheek. He cursed the thickness of the material that he could not feel her touch.

"Just stay with me… _please?_ Until I fall back asleep?"

He swallowed, his anger fading as quickly as it had surged, and nodded. Rising, he emptied the basin and rinsed it with fresh water before placing it back on the washing table against the wall, cleaning up any other signs that he had been there. While he did so, she had slipped back beneath the blankets, her eyes following his movements.

Finished, he knelt back at her side, and when she stretched an upturned hand in his direction, he touched his own atop it.

 _"For saints have hands that pilgrims hands do touch."_ His mind fled from the rest of the words before he could think of such an act with her.

Her lids fluttered closed, and for a moment, he thought she was asleep. But then she opened her eyes. "I have something for you," she said, so quietly he had to strain to hear. She slipped her hand from under his and tucked it under her pillow.

Then she drew out his white half mask.

"Doesn't seem right that I should keep it. It belongs to you."

He plucked the mask from her fingers, the heft familiar, the porcelain warm from being underneath her pillow. How long had she slept with it there with only down feathers and thin linen to separate them? He could remove his black mask and replace it with the cover he had worn throughout his time as the Opera Ghost, or he could leave it all behind.

He was aware of her watching him, the girl upon which he had hung his entire future. He had almost torn her apart from the weight of his own selfishness.

Releasing a breath, he slid the mask back underneath her pillow. "Do with it what you will. We cannot go back."

"No, we can't."

He settled at her side, ignoring the hard wood digging into the points of his knees. He tried not to flinch when she touched his hand once again, her warmth spreading through the flesh that stretched across the back of his hand. If _she_ could touch him without revulsion, then perhaps he could find the courage he himself needed.

He stayed long after she had fallen asleep.

* * *

 **Next up: The letter from New York returns.**


	9. The Way Forward is the Way Back

**This chapter gave me trouble, but here it is. Major plot a-happening. Thoughts appreciated! :)**

* * *

 **Chapter 9**

When Christine awoke the next morning, she found a tiny vial waiting for her next to the water basin, along with a small batch of loose tea. She pulled the cork free from the vial, releasing the strong scent of eucalyptus and peppermint, taking her back to the events of last night.

Erik _had_ been here, in her bedroom. Unbidden, he had come to thank her for returning his trunk. When he had found that she was ill, he had traveled to bring her medicinal remedies. She blushed to think that he had seen her in only her nightdress, but he had acted only gentlemanly toward her.

She felt for the white half mask beneath her pillow and found it there. So, he had not taken it after all. Why hadn't he? He had said they could not go backwards. The mask represented everything he had been at the Opera Populaire – ghost, phantom, angel. Her first glimpse of him had been merely his mask shining within her dressing room mirror.

Her head still felt fuzzy, and she would certainly use the scented oil again. The tea smelled delicious and would likely bring her relief as well. Even though she had slept well after he left, and the full sunshine outside revealed that it was later in the morning, she had not fully recovered from her cold.

A tray perched on the divan showed that Annette had been in at some time. Christine sat up, trying to test the waters to see if she could stand, but her head started to swim. While she didn't think she was running any fever, she could not make it out of bed yet. She did remember to move the mask to the bag under her bed. Beneath her pillow was not a secure hiding place by any means.

Soon after she heard the clock downstairs chime ten o'clock, Annette knocked on the door with morning tea. Christine gestured at the tea leaves that Erik had made, and the lady's maid did not question where they had come from.

And thus, the next several days passed with Christine remaining in bed. The de Chagny family physician came to see her on the second day, and he reassured her that she did, in fact, have a mere illness of the head that should soon clear with plenty of drink and rest. She and Meg wrote letters back and forth, although about nothing of significance lest the notes were intercepted.

Once, a dressmaker arrived to measure her for adjustments to a dinner gown. Christine had not even known a special dress was being made for her.

The third morning, she woke to find more of the strange tea that Erik had left for her the first night. It was obvious that he had been in her room once again, but this time, he had not awakened her. How long had he lingered here, watching her sleep? She tried not to let her thoughts linger on such things…

Raoul came to visit not at all.

This dismayed her, and she did not understand why he had not at least popped in to see if she was getting better. He _did_ have Annette deliver a few short notes, mostly wishing Christine her health restored and promising they would have dinner together as soon as she was well again. He also sent a small box of specialty chocolates, which she had not been able to eat due to her lack of appetite.

She remembered how furious Erik had been the first time she missed a music lesson because of a cold. His voice, powerful and laced with tension, had boomed inside her dressing room the following evening, demanding to know why she had been gone. While her Angel of Music had always edged on the side of anger, had always been strict with her lessons and selective with his praise, he had never berated her the way he did that night.

When she had told him of her cold, amidst blowing her still dripping nose, his voice had immediately softened. His apology had been one of the few she had ever received from him. The next morning, she had found this same tea waiting for her on her dressing room table.

She shook away the memories. Now, after a few days of rest, she was starting to feel much better.

That evening, she came downstairs for the first time in days and joined the family for a small dinner. Raoul rushed to her side, clasping her hands and bestowing a kiss upon her cheek.

"Christine! I'm so happy to see you up and about." His perfect white teeth flashed in a grin.

She drew back, not ready to return the smile. "I am doing much better, thank you."

"Did you get my chocolates?"

"I did. Thank you," she said again. She looked around him to where his father stood to one side of the parlor, his youngest sister Helaine sitting nearby. "I am sorry if I caused any trouble with my illness."

"Never mind about that," Raoul said, still grinning. "You're well now – that is what is important! Oh, my dear Christine, we have much to discuss over dinner. Come." He offered her his arm, which she took, and the small group moved toward the dining room.

Christine's head was still too fuzzy to follow much of the dinner chatter. At one point, she realized Raoul was calling her name. He produced a box, and for a moment, she struggled to draw sufficient breath. She recognized that box as the one that contained her engagement ring, which Raoul had taken to resize weeks ago.

He held it out to her, the diamond huge in its fancy setting, the gold gleaming in the light. "I am eager to finally see this upon your finger, Christine."

Her hand trembled, but luckily, he took it in his to slide the ring onto her finger. She had only ever worn this ring around her neck, and its light weight was so different than the first ring she had worn there… a thicker ring with an ovular black stone.

His father cleared his throat. "In two days, we will have our dinner party. I trust you both will be ready?"

Christine assumed he meant her dress, and so she nodded. The next days passed with the same sort of monotony. She ventured outside only once to walk about the Tuileries until Raoul insisted she head back in order to further avoid the cold air.

The afternoon of the dinner party, a special body servant arrived to arrange her hair. Christine had little interest in the brushed-out piles of hair that might normally pass for style. Her curly ringlets did not take kindly to being puffed and tugged, and so she insisted on a gentle up-do held together with an obscene amount of pins. Two curls framed either side of her face. A heavy comb adorned the top left side of her head.

Then she was helped into her gown. She had to admit that the pale blue satin was pretty with white Spanish lace trimming the bodice and cascading down one side of the overskirt. Blue satin flowers were arranged along the neckline, which was wider and lower than she normally wore. Her neck and collarbone were completely exposed with only thin lacy straps coming around the curves of her shoulders. Bone white silk gloves rose up to her elbows, leaving her upper arms bare.

This was not a dress made for walking, the skirts heavy, layered, and narrow around her legs. The bustle in the back fell in thick waves of blue satin and ended in a short train behind her. She wore brand new blue silk slippers with a heel. Finally, after an hour of dressing and primping, she was left alone to place the final additions of a borrowed necklace around her throat and cuff around one gloved wrist.

Annette knocked on the door. "Monsieur le Vicomte says everyone is beginning to gather in the parlor."

"Thank you," Christine said politely. She turned back to face herself in the mirror. She had worn fancy gowns before, but they had usually been costumes. This confection of light blue and lace made tonight's upcoming events seem… real. Raoul had been so secretive - she didn't know what the purpose of tonight was.

Pulling open a drawer in the narrow table, she retrieved the letter from the manager at the city of New York's Academy of Music. She had not been able to find the right time to show Raoul the letter since she received it almost a week prior.

She had not heard from Erik in days. While she hoped Monsieur Khan would alert her to when Erik was leaving the country, she did not see how they would have any reason for their paths to cross again. Erik was moving on with his life, leaving the country to begin the next phase of his existence somewhere else.

It was time for Christine to do the same.

She stood and tucked the folded piece of paper underneath the bottom edge of the lace trim of her bodice.

Unlike the last time she had joined the de Chagny's for a formal dinner, the parlor was packed with people, most of whom she did not recognize. Helaine sat with her older sister and a gaggle of other women to one side of the room, while Raoul's father stood in a tight circle with a group of businessmen and others of the haute class who sported similar cuts to their mustaches.

Christine stood at the edge of the room, unsure what to do until she heard Raoul's guffaw. She followed the sound and found him sitting down and sipping pre-dinner brandy with a trio of young men who seemed about his own age. They rose when she came close, and Raoul's blue eyes brightened when he saw her.

"There she is!" he said, coming to her side. "I was just telling my associates here about you." He rattled off the names of the men, introducing each by titles and businesses that she barely understood.

"She is even prettier close-up than she is on the stage," said one man, holding her hand a little too long. "I was lucky enough to catch a glimpse. You were a dancer, were you not?"

Christine opened her mouth to speak, but Raoul stepped in. "She was, but the managers at the Populaire quickly came to their senses when they realized the hidden talent they had in her. She has the voice of an angel."

This was not a topic Christine wished to discuss with strangers. All too easily talk of the Populaire could slide into gossip about the recent scandals… and her role in them.

She gave a faint laugh. "Raoul flatters me, but I have realized my interests lie more in art. Just the other day, I toured the _Musée_ du Louvre. Have you been there?"

And thus the conversation veered elsewhere.

Soon, the butler announced the beginning of dinner, and they all shuffled into the dining hall. Christine was seated somewhat in the middle of the table, with Helaine to her left. Raoul sat across the table and slightly to the side of her. An older gentleman took the head of the table opposite Raoul's father.

Christine breathed a secret sigh of relief that dinner was going so well. Conversation was pleasant and light, and she found herself slowly starting to relax. Then someone clinked a piece of silverware against a glass, causing a hush to fall over the crowd. Raoul stood, slightly flushed face split in a grin, his champagne glass in one hand.

"Thank you, everyone, for coming tonight," he said, gazing at each of them. "We are all grateful to be able to share this moment with our closest friends and relatives."

What moment? Christine was a bit stunned. _Her_ closest friend had not been invited.

"As you well know by now," he continued, turning his eyes toward Christine and raising his glass toward her, "a few months ago, I met the love of my life: Mademoiselle Christine Daaé. What you may not know is that Christine and I spent a summer together as children at my family's estate in the south of France. I knew then she was someone special, and when I found her singing as prima donna at the opera, I knew I had to have her on my arm."

Chuckles rose among the group, eyes turning toward her. She tried to smile but took a nervous sip of her champagne instead. She could see the outline of her engagement ring through her thin silk gloves, the large diamond a tumor-like lump atop her finger.

"Well, this announcement will be in the papers tomorrow morning, but I wanted all of you to hear it from my mouth first. Christine and I are engaged to be married!"

Murmurs and polite applause followed. Christine kept her eyes on Raoul, trying to draw strength from his confidence, and ignoring the way some of the dinner guests leaned over to whisper behind their hands. Of course, a Vicomte like Raoul might not typically marry a woman from the opera unless she was a well-established diva. Christine had only just begun her career. Christine had no family, no title, no money. What _did_ she have to offer such a family as this one?

Raoul, oblivious, waited for everyone to settle, then continued, "We will be wed during the lovely spring weather of April next month, and afterwards, we are fortunate enough to be moving from our long-established home here in Paris." Christine did not miss the slight tilt of the head of de Chagny senior – permission to give this next news? "As of two days ago, I was named partner, as some of you already know, and I will be spear-heading our new business ventures in Rome with Christine by my side." He raised a glass. "To Christine!"

The crowd raised their glasses. "To Christine!"

But she barely heard them, her ears ringing in sudden shock. Move to _Rome_? This was the first she had heard of such a thing. She was aware of Raoul moving to her side and touching her elbow. She whirled on him, glaring through a sudden rush of tears.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

He at least had the sense to look abashed. "I wanted to, but you were sick, and there just wasn't time enough."

"You mean you could not find one _minute_ to tell me of your plans? Your plans for _us?_ "

He glanced around, tightening his hold on her elbow. "Can we talk later?"

"Of course not, especially since I do not trust you will come to find me later."

"Excuse us," he said to the dinner guests nearby. "Carry on without us." Still holding her elbow, he ushered her back to the parlor room, and she jerked free as soon as she thought no one was looking.

"Raoul, how could you make such a decision without me?"

He spread his hands. "I don't have a choice in the matter. This is my work, this is our _future_. Now is not the time to be selfish-"

" _Selfish_?" She stared at him, wide-eyed. "All I wanted was for you to include me. If we are going to be husband and wife-"

" _If_ , Christine?" The look on his handsome face was enough for her to realize how she had wounded him. Why was she arguing about this? She was angry that he hadn't told her, angry that she had no choice in the matter, but he loved her, he wanted to marry her, and _together_ , they could go to Rome. Could they not?

She placed both of her hands on his chest, smoothing the edges of his waistcoat just below his tie. "I did not mean it that way," she said, blinking away her own tears and seeking to reassure him.

"I believe you." He took one of her hands and kissed the backs of her gloved fingers. "You will love Rome – have you ever been?"

She shook her head. "Papa and I never went that far south." She thought for a moment, remembering the letter stuck under the edge of her bodice. "I-I have something to show you." Pulling the paper free, she unfolded it and handed it to him. "It is in Italian."

He flashed her a brilliant grin. "Luckily for you, I can speak, read, _and_ write Italian!"

"That will be useful in Rome!"

"Ha. Now, what is this?" As he began to read, she watched his face, but his expression was indecipherable. When he finished, he handed the paper back, and she held it in her hand, limply. He just kind of stood there for a moment. "You received a letter from New York," he finally stated.

"Yes, about a week ago," she said, hating how shakily the words came out. "Meg and I wrote to several opera houses months ago, never expecting back a reply, and then I received this. I know of course this is from New York, and I didn't receive a response from Teatro Argentina in Rome, but there are many other theatres in Rome or nearby enough to make the distance manageable." She grasped his arm with sudden excitement. "I-I could audition all over Italy, and maybe a theatre somewhere would accept me? I _have_ been trained in the Italian singing style bel canto after all, and I can sing in Italian."

She skirted around the fact that it had been Erik who had trained her voice in such a way, and pressed onward.

"Just imagine it, Raoul. You would do business by day and then come to the opera house to watch me sing and perform in the evening. You… you would have your job, and I could have my life back again!"

"Christine," he said with a sigh. He pulled back from her so her hand fell away. She fisted her hands against a surge of tension, not noticing that she crushed the letter in her tight grasp. "That is just not possible."

"W-what?" She took a step away from him, nearly tripping on the long train of her bustle. "What do you mean?" She hated how calmly he looked at her, as though he had already given lengthy thought to what was only just now spinning throughout her mind.

"I love you, you know that," he said, arms stiff at his sides. "You and I – we were meant to be from the moment we spent that summer together as kids. I will forever be grateful that the opera brought us back together again, but now it is time to put childish games aside. You don't _need_ to sing anymore."

She didn't need to sing? Of course she needed to sing! She needed music in her life as much as she needed the breath in her lungs. She had been born within the notes of a song, her father's violin keeping her mother calm during labor and soothing her fresh infantile cries. One of the few memories she had of her mother was her voice humming a Swedish lullaby. Music had kept her father going after her mother's illness, had soothed her soul and restored his. Christine had danced to her father's music before she could walk, and learned to sing before she could string words together in a thought, and helped him polish his instrument before she learned to brush her own hair. Music was life within her belly and happiness within her heart.

She truly believed she would have followed her father to the grave if Madame Giry had not placed her within the ballet girls.

She would never have found a reason for happiness again if Erik had not sought to wrench her true voice from within her.

 _Why had she never told him that?_

She was aware of the tears streaming from her eyes, of Raoul softly calling her name. She looked up at him. "You expect me to give up my singing?"

The sigh he uttered told her everything. "Christine, it is time we grew up, don't you think?"

Her heart seized, and she struggled to keep her breathing under control lest she lose herself more than she already had. She was aware that Raoul had given her a handkerchief, but all she could do was stare at a spot on the floor.

He nudged her with the white square of fabric, unable to meet her eyes. "Go ahead and take a moment to clean yourself up as quickly as you can. We don't want to be rude to our guests, do we?" His tone was flippant, but his words cut her deeply. Is that what she was turning into for him? An embarrassment?

She felt a soft touch as he slid the back of his hand against her cheek near her ear. Then he left her alone, heading back to the dining room.

Christine trembled, torn between seething anger and utter despair. The vision she had built up around her life with Raoul was disintegrating. She had desperately hoped that the two of them would settle back into the easy, tender relationship they had once had. The months between the chandelier falling and the masquerade had been heaven on earth, but that time must have been all a facade. How could Raoul say such sweet words to her then and treat her so differently now?

What had changed?

She tossed his handkerchief to the floor and pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle a sob. How could she possibly calm down enough to return to that horrible room? She could not bear the looks on the faces of those strangers, the gossiping whispers, the truth that Raoul expected her to give up everything that had once brought them together.

Everything that made her Christine _Daaé._

A footman entered through the front door, which she could see beyond the other side of the parlor, letting in a chilly nighttime breeze. As she watched, he shuddered a bit and straightened his coat, then turned, and grappled with the many packages he had left just outside the door. He stacked them in his arms, turned again, and walked further across the foyer, beyond where she could see.

She found her feet moving across the parlor, away from the voicing laughing in the dining hall, voices which did not seem to notice that she still had not returned. Her vision seemed to tunnel, focusing on where the footman had vanished. He had not returned to close the door behind him, but he would at any moment. Her feet found the change of flooring from carpeted parlor to wooden foyer. She still could not see the footman, but she could now hear him as he scuttled about a back room, delivering the mail he had carried inside the house.

The door to the outside was still cracked open. She knew he would likely be yelled at for leaving it open for so long if the first footman or butler caught him. The opening was just wide enough for the large bustle of her dress.

Her ears ringing from the noises of the dining hall, the sounds of her own feet upon the wood floor, and the thudding of her heart, she held her breath and darted forward.

She slipped into the night.

* * *

Erik was midway through sorting his belongings into piles upon his bed when he heard the knock upon the door.

He knew that heavy hand, had heard the thud of that broad fist many a time during his two years in Mazandaran. Sticking his head out of his doorway, he scowled at the unseen man as though that would make him disappear.

After a moment of pause, he heard the familiar deep voice state casually, "I am not going away."

In long strides, Erik stalked to the door. With one hand, he swung it open, and with the other, he snaked a path forward to grab onto one of the lapels of Khan's jacket and yank him inside the apartment. He shoved the shorter, broader man against the wall next to the frame as he closed the door behind him. Khan put up little resistance, and when Erik swiveled his brown eyes to glare at him, he found the older man was… grinning.

Erik patted him down with practiced movements. In one pocket, he found a watch, in another – a pocketbook. He tossed these items to the nearby armchair. Tucked into Khan's waistcoat, a small bag was discovered that jingled with he hefted it.

"Yours," Khan said, still grinning like an idiot. "I have more, but I fear several of your larger accounts have been acquired by the police."

Finding nothing else, Erik let go of him and swung the bag of gold. It landed heavily upon the small kitchen table across the room. "How much is there?"

Casually, Khan retrieved his watch and pocketbook, planting himself in the chair as though he belonged there. "Fifty-two thousand francs."

Erik spat a curse.

"I take it that amount is not what you were expecting?"

"A mere fraction." He turned his furious eyes back upon the Persian. "You may leave now. I will pick up the rest on my way out of the city."

He did not enjoy the way Khan gazed at him. Erik knew his wig was not askew upon his head, and the black mask which covered most of his face except for his mouth and jaw was perfectly in place. The piece of leather was the same Khan had seen while they had both been in Mazandaran, but Khan's contemplative, penetrating* stare made him feel as though his face was exposed in all its horribleness.

At last, Khan spoke, "I have only just found you again, Erik."

Erik could not keep the bitterness out of his voice. "The years have been long, Daroga, and far from kind. Gods forbid I suffer through your judgment."

"Ah," Khan said softly. "I suppose that is best left to Allah… and yourself."

He stared at the older man for a long time. When Khan did not shy away from his steely temperament, Erik edged around the other armchair and sat upon it stiffly. "Where have you been?"

"Searching for you. After you escaped Mazandaran, I spent some time in a prison cell under suspicion of helping you. They found no evidence, of course, so I was released a few months later, fired from my job, and set up with a small pension for my silence." He leaned back, biting the pad of his thumb. "I headed back to this part of the continent, but it was only when I heard tales of a magician from the gypsies that I tracked you to France."

Erik crossed one long, lean leg over the other, ankle resting upon the other knee. His posture did not betray his own sudden tension. He had no wish to speak of this with Khan, but he knew the man's stubbornness ran as deep as his own. "I traveled for a while with my tricks before taking a train to Paris."

"I lost track of you in the city, however. I spoke with Madame Giry yesterday. She would not tell me how the two of you met." Khan's statement was a probing one. Erik gave him no response, and so the Persian rested his bearded cheek against one hand in a thoughtful manner. "Three years ago, you started to haunt the Palais Garnier. Where _were_ you for those two missing years?"

"You ask as though you will get an answer," Erik drawled.

"Won't I?"

He could not take these vague remarks any longer. Khan always meddled in his affairs, putting himself where he did not belong, shoving his way into Erik's life as though he was welcome. When had their relationship turned from acquaintances to… this? And yet, when Erik could have actually _used_ his assistance, the Daroga had been nowhere to be found.

He abruptly stood and headed to the bag of gold on the table. Releasing the drawstring, he spread the bag open and began to count the coins. It was enough to purchase tickets, but he would need the rest to establish himself in a new city.

He heard movement behind him. When a heavy palm laid itself upon his shoulder, he shrugged it off, spun around, and fisted his hands in the front of Khan's clothing. He shoved his face close, lips twisted into a snarl.

"The years apart have made you stupid, Daroga," he spat.

Was he losing his touch? When they had first met, Khan had the sense to seem afraid whenever he had to come face-to-face with such wrath. Only once had he witnessed Erik's true face: a month after he had arrived in Mazandaran, the Shah's mother had demanded that he take off his mask. Erik had not missed the way Khan had staggered back, while he did not retch like others in the royal court.

Although he saw beads of sweat break out across Khan's forehead, the Persian did not flinch away from Erik's closeness.

"What happened?" Khan asked, the warm of his breath fanning Erik's throat. The older man was shorter but built stockier, although Erik did not doubt that he could overtake the man easily if needed. Khan knew this and always had.

"You have no right to know," Erik replied, words a hiss from his mouth.

"Do I not?" Slowly, he raised his hands and laid them atop Erik's fists, settling there without pushing him away. "You disappeared from my detection for almost a year. It was only when I heard talk of the now infamous Opera Ghost that you resurfaced. What drove you underground?"

"I did not _disappear._ " Erik shifted his feet, lips pressed in a thin line, thoughts warring with each other. Finally, the truth could no longer be withheld. Antoinette had turned her pity into a call to action to aid him however he chose. He had used that to his full advantage until everything had fallen apart.

How would Khan react? He knew beneath his mask and swift temper there lived a coward.

He sucked in a breath. "A traveling fair sought my services," he said bitterly. "I suppose at that point I was desperate enough for funds that I accepted their offer. However, the _employment_ was not what I had imagined."

Brown eyes searched his, trying to delve beneath his words and discover their true meaning. "A traveling fair?" he echoed.

Erik shoved back from him, causing Khan to take a stumbling step. "I owe you _nothing_!"

But Khan was not going to let the matter go so easily. He never did, did he? "I suppose not, but neither do I owe you. I could easily return the rest of your funds back to the banks – or back to the Populaire – and be done with this whole matter."

"I could easily kill you and take the money from your empty flat!"

If his rising bellow startled Khan, the Persian gave no sign. Instead, his shoulders slumped, and a sigh escaped his mouth. "I did not come here to fight with you, and I certainly have no wish to force your secrets into the light." He spread his hands in a pleading gesture. "Although you may not return the sentiment, I _do_ care about you. By Allah, Erik, multiple times over the past years I thought you were dead. The least you can do is trust me."

Erik looked over his shoulder, suddenly weary. "I trust no one."

In slow, measured steps, he walked down the short hallway to the back bedroom. By only a miracle had the mob not yet searched his trunk. The contents had arrived completely intact, and near the bottom, he had found a stack of papers he kept in a large envelope. He found the flyer that he should have thrown away long ago and brought it into the room where Khan waited.

He handed the flyer to the older man. He did not want to watch his face while he read it, so he turned to face the fire. The contents of the handbill were well known to him, and he had kept it as a reminder never to let his guard down again, that the _public_ could turn against him at any moment. He would forever be _other_ , separate from society, labeled as something inhuman no matter what he accomplished.

Across the top of the flyer, the words "The Living Corpse" were crafted in sensational script.

The middle bore an exaggerated drawing of his bare face mostly in shadow, large metal bars covering the worst of it, showing the prison in which he had existed.

Along the bottom stood a description of how much the fee cost to witness such an atrocity, as well as a listing of in which towns he would be displayed next.

Khan's ragged breathing betrayed him. When he crumpled up the advertisement, Erik did not stop him. As he watched, Khan crossed the room and tossed the paper into the fireplace. He glanced at the older man, wondering if he might pass out, but Khan's change of demeanor came not from pity or disgust… but from fury.

"Tell me where they might be found now," said Khan, tone gruff, shoulders shaking.

Erik gave a quiet chuckle, and suddenly, the tension eased from his own body. Khan looked at him, surprised, but Erik only shook his head. "I am afraid you cannot kill them, old friend."

"Why not?" Khan barked.

Erik's lips curved into a smirk. "Because I already did."

His bushy eyebrows rising, Khan blew out a steadying breath. "You have such miserable luck, Erik, in everything."

Not bothering to agree, Erik returned to gazing into the fire. The two men stood in comfortable silence for a while, each contemplating the past.

Erik supposed he had to thank the traveling fair, and the dead men he had left behind, for one thing: the moment he had met Antoinette. She had taken little Meg to see the animals, not thinking she might meet a different kind of beast. And yet, she had been kind to him and horrified at the cage in which he had been chained.

It was she who had tossed him one of her hair pins.

After his escape, he had found her working at the opera house. The depths beneath had opened to him easily enough, and soon after he had constructed his home, he had heard Christine singing to herself in her dressing room. But he had destroyed that relationship, and now he was yet again fleeing for his life.

He supposed Khan's words still rang true: he had miserable luck.

A quiet knock on the door broke the silence.

* * *

 **Penetrating: that's what Wheel of Fish said.**

 **(Yep, I went there.)**

 **Next up: Tickets? What tickets?**


	10. What She Wants

**I apologize for "Moonless" taking my attention for a weekend. :)**

 **Onward!**

* * *

 **Chapter 10: What She Wants**

Christine struggled to get her shivering under control. She had dashed down the street until her feet began to pinch in her heeled shoes. Even after they began to ache, she had continued her brisk pace. Although she knew where she was going, she had not _walked_ the entire distance before. She had to take several detours and double back several times before she found the right street.

The gas lamps were steadily being lit throughout the city, but the cloudy night was black overhead, and the cold air left damp mist on her skin. Few people walked on the streets. She knew she was conspicuous, her pale blue gown standing out in the dark, and she shied away from anyone she spied.

The further she walked, the more her temper cooled, leaving her as cold as her aching body. How could she have been so blind as to what Raoul expected of her? How could she have never made it clear to him what _she_ wanted of her life? Perhaps she had, but he had never listened. Perhaps they had both ignored the truth of their relationship.

They were strangers to each other.

And that summer in southern France had long since passed.

When she had fled out the front door of the de Chagny estate, she had not taken anything with her except the New York letter still clenched in her fist. Her bare shoulders quickly became as numb as her cheeks, and her silk gloves did little to keep her arms warm. Her speedy footsteps echoed throughout the Parisian cobblestone streets.

What a fool she would look, turning up on _his_ doorstep at this hour. Her hair had come partially undone, and her tears had smudged across her face. The cold had sent her nose running, and she had no handkerchief with which to wipe. Her dignity had long since fled as she had, but still she hesitated on the stoop of Erik's apartment building.

Her breath coming out in quick, white wisps, she gave her decision one last thought before stepping into the stairwell. The enclosed stairs at least offered respite from the wind. She gathered her skirts in her free hand and climbed to his floor.

She knocked.

She heard little noise from within. When the door opened, she looked into the face of Nadir Khan.

"Miss Daaé!" he said, disbelief widening his eyes.

"M-Monsieur Khan."

He glanced to his right, humor warming his eyes. "For a dead man, you are popular tonight."

A pale hand lashed out to grasp onto the door and swing it wider. Erik stood there in his full opera garb and wig, nostrils flaring, looking rather startled to see her. Doubts surfaced again that she was doing the right thing by being here. His dark eyes, framed by the black mask that covered his face except his mouth and jawline, roamed over her rumpled appearance, and to her surprise, he extended a slightly shaky hand, beckoning.

She stepped inside his apartment, running a self-conscious hand across her forehead to smooth back her wild hair. "Good evening, Monsieur Erik."

His jaw tightened at that. What did he expect? The presence of Nadir Khan was making her a bit nervous. She had never seen Erik interact with anyone besides herself and Raoul… if one could call threatening bodily harm toward him in any way "interacting."

"I-I am sorry to intrude," she said uncertainly.

"Nonsense," Erik murmured. "Daroga was just leaving."

Nadir arched a thick eyebrow at that. "Actually, Erik, might we have a word?"

Christine was close enough to feel the low rumble of annoyance that began to bubble up within Erik's chest. She smiled gently. "I would love to freshen up. May I use your bathroom?

"Of course, Miss Daaé," Nadir responded quickly. "Down the hall and to the left."

She nodded and excused herself to the two men. Erik's eyes glared at her back as she left, but she pointedly ignored him. She might not want to admit it, but she was growing used to his suddenly-shifting moods.

Overall, this was a small apartment. The bathroom, barely large enough for a sitting tub and sink, opened to the left, while a single bedroom containing only a bed stood to the right, the door ajar. She glanced inside, seeing the familiar trunk open next to the bed and its contents filed in neat piles across the white comforter. Not wanting to linger too long and appear nosy, she closed herself inside the bathroom, but not before noticing sorted bottles and other belongings that appeared to be more than just clothing.

Of course he was preparing to leave. It was obvious he was packing. But was that not what she had been helping him do all this time? She was all but helping to push him out of the city and out of her life.

She should not be feeling this sudden dreadful ache in her stomach.

There was no mirror in the bathroom, and she was not surprised. She splashed cold water on her face, but she could tell her eyes were puffy from crying. Her hair did not want to cooperate, and some pins were missing, but she straightened it the best she could.

What _was_ she doing here? The letter from New York still lay clenched in her fist, now smudged and rumpled. What a fool she had been, confessing her desire to sing to _Raoul_ of all people. How could she have expected him to understand?

But that man in the living room. _He_ could understand what it mean to need music as much as one needed to breathe. It was he, after all, who had taught her voice to fly.

* * *

As soon as the door clicked closed behind Christine, Khan rounded on Erik, keeping his voice low and hissing so the girl just beyond them could not hear.

"I thought you were done with her!"

Erik waved an angry, dismissive hand. "I _am_ done with her."

"Her presence here suggests otherwise."

Annoying, prying Khan. He had an uncanny knack for stating the obvious. But Christine had come here of her own free will, and Erik had no idea why she might be here, late at night, once again seeking him out. When he had left his cold remedy behind for her, he had tied no strings to it.

He told Khan as much, but the older man only snorted. "You had best send her off. Let us not forget that you are a wanted man."

Yes, yes, how could he forget?

Khan must have noticed the weariness to his posture. His face was too well covered to give anything away, but the Daroga had long ago learned how to read Erik's more subtle signs, damn him. His tone softened. "I only want to see you happy, Erik."

Erik jerked his eyes back to the fire, unwilling to see the kindness in Khan's. There would be no happiness for him… but sometimes, sometimes he could steal _moments_ that did not feel like pain.

Christine reentered the room, her face pink from the cold water, the shape of her hair changed. As soon as she nodded at the two of them, Khan stepped over to the door.

"I should be going. More gold bars to procure," he added, winking at Christine. "Good evening, Erik. Miss Daaé."

The two of them watched the Persian leave. Christine stood in the middle of the living room, and now he took a moment to drink in the sight of her. She was dressed in greater finery than he had ever seen her wear. A satin blue gown graced the curves of her body, the thin straps hugging low around her sleek, bare shoulders, which gleamed pale in the light of the fire. A heavy necklace with dark stones hung around her slender throat. She wore no cloak, and although she had tried to fix it, her hair was still askew. Her long hem was dirty.

He dragged his gaze back to her face and found her cheeks flushed. He supposed he _had_ taken a bit too long to look upon her. "Did you walk the entirety here?"

"I had to. I… did not bring my handbag." Her pink tongue lashed out to wet her lips. "Again, I apologize for intruding."

She moved as though to leave, but he stepped between her and door. Her blue eyes flashed with defiance, but she did not try to push past. They were closer now, and he towered over her. She had always been so small before him, though she shrank away less often than before.

"Foolish of you to travel these streets alone," he said, "especially dressed as you are."

One of her arms, gleaming white skin bare from the elbow upward, came around to hug her middle. "I forgot my cloak."

"Indeed." Unable to stop himself, he stretched out a hand to caress a knuckle from the corner of one of her eyes to her soft jaw. She stood still, letting him. "You have been crying. Christine?"

Immediately, the sheen to her eyes increased. She took a single step back. "I should not have come here," she said, breath hitching. "I don't know where my head is tonight." This time, she did try to shoulder pass him, but he caught her wrist in his long fingers.

He jerked her toward him, and for a moment, she was off balance, pressing the satin of her bodice against the backs of his fingers that held her wrist. "You came here to _me_ , tonight. Why?"

The paper in her fist caught his attention again, and he quickly plucked it from her grasp, ignoring her cry of protest. He took only seconds to read the letter written in Italian. When he was finished, he held it up between two of his fingers, allowing her to snatch it back. She folded the paper and stuffed it under the edge of her bodice.

"You could have asked to read it," she said, glaring.

"When did you write to them?" he demanded. He still held onto her wrist, doing his best not to grip her too hard but nevertheless wanting to keep her rooted in place.

"Months ago."

" _When?"_

She puffed a sigh, blowing tendrils of dark hair from her forehead. He felt the warm breeze on his hand and tried not to shudder. "If you must know, just after you brought the chandelier crashing down at my feet. Meg was trying to cheer me up, and so we wrote them together." She straightened her spine, drawing her head back to look up directly in his eyes. "I was _terrified_ , Erik – of you, of your rage. I did not know what to do except to try to flee."

"To New York."

"To _anywhere_."

He shifted upon his feet, giving his head a half shake. "I would never intentionally hurt you."

She did not reply, but she did not need to. In the space of her silence, he heard the echo of the word he had just chosen: _intentionally_. Of course he would never want to hurt her deliberately, but even he had a limit to his control.

He pushed the words out with biting force: "Are you going to New York?" Slow, steadying breath. "The Academy of Music has its problems, but your voice could bring the talent it is lacking." Hesitating, he said with a hint of a sneer, "Now that you are free of me, you could go wherever you wished."

When she tried to tug loose her wrist, he let go. She moved in front of the fire, staring into the flames like he had done moments earlier. He studied her slight form, her back to him. She truly looked lovely in that pale blue gown, the shade an echo of her own irises.

"Perhaps I am free of you, but I am not _free_ ," she said softly. Tugging off her left glove, she held up her hand. The large stone there caught the glow of the fire, and he felt blinded by it even though such a thing was impossible.

He snarled, all of his pent-up despair rising to the surface. "You dare show that damned rock upon your finger to _me_ , Christine?"

He leapt to her side, as close as he could manage without touching her. If he put his hands upon her milky skin right now, he feared what he might do. He knew she was engaged; he had thought when he had first seen her at the cemetery that she was already married, and he had expected such a thing to occur with the quickest availability of a priest.

However, _seeing_ proof of such a thing stirred up his dormant rage. Today, he had been so dreadfully reminded with Daroga's probing questions that he carried half the face of a corpse. He had escaped the Shah, who had tried to poison him in Mazandaran, only to let down his guard long enough to become the favorite display item in the traveling fair's collection of curiosities. It had taken five men to take him to the ground, and even then, they had beat him senseless to do it. The first crack of the whip across his back had shocked him into stunned silence. A grown man, whipped like a dog!

They had thrashed him often after that, stripped him naked and treated him worse than an animal. He never sang for them as he had for the Shah, never gave them the pleasure of trying to make him do more than stand there while they removed his hood for an audience time and time again.

Madame Giry, horrified by what she saw, had dropped one of her hair pins into his cage. It had been easy enough to follow her back to the Populaire, after he had killed every single one of the men who had ever dared strike him.

But even though Madame Giry had released him from his prison at the circus, he had still labored under the weight of his own terrible memories.

Until an untrained yet sweet voice had soothed his soul.

She stood before him now, pale face swallowed by wide, blue eyes. She had jerked her hand down and covered that hated piece of rock on her finger, but it was too late to take back her mistake. Erik had only caught a glimpse of the fool's token of affection before, the promise that bound her to another man, a _whole_ man. Now, the size of it loomed like beacon.

Today, Erik had been reminded that he was less than, that he would _always_ be less than. And that she… she had chosen someone else.

The floor hit his knees with a dull thud as he landed at her feet. Even though he wore wig and mask, he felt exposed before her. He was aware of broken porcelain scattered around him – a teacup he had swept off the table – and the legs of the chair he had overturned raised to the ceiling.

"Are you quite done?" she asked, but her tone was not mocking. After the fit he had just thrown, he supposed her question was reasonable.

His shoulders would not cease shaking, and so he continued to kneel there, bent under her stare. His own breathing was loud in his ears, but she was still and quiet. He heard as she replaced her glove, the whisper of the silk cutting him deeply.

Then, the white lace ruffles of her skirt came into view as she stepped closer. He felt the slight pressure of her small hands upon each of his shoulders. Her slender palms traveled up to his collar, not touching the line of skin between collar and mask, and back down to the points of his shoulders. She did this repeatedly, stroking down the long length of his shoulders with calm, soothing pressure, until his heart had slowed to a steady beat.

Once he thought he could move again, he caught both her hands and pressed her knuckles to his distorted mouth, only for a brief second. Then he stood, his older bones creaking as he did so.

She craned her head back to look him in the eye. "I apologize if that startled you."

She did not quite know the reason for his reaction, and so he stayed silent.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "My fiancé does not want me to sing," she explained. "In fact, tonight he told me as much and said I should put the whole childish affair behind me." She gave a sharp, bitter laugh. "Perhaps I _am_ such a child, stomping my foot when I don't get my way. But I feel that this is more than that, Erik. More than anything, I do not believe I can give up music."

"What are you saying?" he asked, although he already knew. He and this angel before him were so different from one another, and yet her soul beat to the same rhythm as his.

"I want to go to New York."

Across the ocean. Away from that boy, perhaps. But also far away from _him_. "The Populaire would take you back. I am sure they are desperate for talent right now."

She shook her head. "I cannot go back there, what with the way they have turned my life – our lives – into a spectacle. I would be put on stage not because of my voice but because of the gossip I would generate. I would be laughed at, gawked at, like a-"

"Freak?" he finished with deadly venom. "Be careful with your next words, mademoiselle, lest you cannot take them back."

Her eyes widened. "I could never be that cruel to you."

One of her gloved hands lifted and slowly touched his black leather-encased cheek. And yet she _had_ been that cruel. Not too long ago, she had stripped him of his mask in front of hundreds.

He stepped back out of her reach. "Did you come all this way to tell your dead maestro this?"

Her cheeks flushed. "I-I thought…" She trailed off, averting her eyes for a moment. Then they snapped back to meet his. "I thought you might help me."

Help her! He barked a rough laugh at that. "If there is not a high enough price on my head, there surely will be after I kidnap the Vicomte's wife and take her to America!"

"I will not become his wife."

He felt the adrenaline hit his system, sending his heart beating in his ribcage like thunder in his ears. " _What?_ " he hissed.

Her lip quivered, rooting him to the reality of what she was saying. He struggled to focus upon her words and not the way his mind was spinning. She was frightened. She ground her teeth in that way she did when she was trying hard not to cry.

"I am not marrying Raoul. I-I want to audition for the opera in New York." She raised her chin, and his heart pounded all the more for the strength he saw there. "And I want you to take me there."

* * *

Christine could feel the tears lurking hot behind her eyes. She fully expected Erik to react with anger once again. She had not been surprised at all by his earlier reaction to seeing her ring, but she was so tired of the pretense and manipulation that had existed between them.

They had gone through so much together. The least they could do was speak honestly with each other going forward.

Erik did not take long to reply with a simple, biting, "No."

She sucked in a breath, hating how much it sounded like a sob. "Erik-"

"You are obviously upset and not thinking clearly," he said, drawing himself up stiffly. "You do not know what you are asking."

She grabbed onto his sleeve, but he shook her off. He pretended to busy himself, righting the overturned chair and grabbing a broom to sweep up the shards of the teacup.

"What a fool you must think I am," she cried, staying at his side. "Poor Christine Daaé – she can never make any decisions for herself. Well, only _I_ am responsible for my future, and I know that future does not exist here in Paris. It- it also does not exist in Rome, where I will be trapped into tea parties and boring dinners with strangers." She finally was able to latch onto his sleeve, halting him. He glared at her, but she would not be deterred. "For better or for worse, you stirred up this want in me, Erik. I _want_ to sing."

As he shrugged her off again, she stood in the middle of his living room, trembling with anger and fear and utter dread. But she was the daughter of Gustave Daaé, renowned master of the violin. She had spent her childhood traveling the roads of Europe. She could do it again.

"I _will_ go to New York," she said, "even without your help."

He studied her, perhaps trying to see just how serious she was. "How do you expect to make such a trip by yourself? Do you know where to book tickets? Do you even know which cities in France sail such ships?" He stalked over to her, shoving his masked face close. She could feel his hot breath on the bare skin of her shoulders. "Ten days is a long time for a young woman traveling alone. You might arrive on the shores of America, but you may not be in one piece."

She tried to shove him back, but he was immovable. "You are trying to scare me."

"I am trying to _save_ you!"

His sudden shout made her own voice rise to meet him. "Then help me, Erik!" She pressed her gloved hands to her face to hide the flush of tears. "My life here is over. So is yours. Is it so wrong for both of us to carve out new lives elsewhere?"

She supposed she should have been more prepared for him to refuse. When had she ever given him anything but rejection?

The coolness of his fingers settled on her hands, gently pulling them down. He procured a handkerchief and wiped first under one eye, then the other, the motions of his hands tender. Tucking the handkerchief away, he replaced the fabric with the calloused pad of one thumb, his touch ever so gentle on the sensitive skin under her eye. She looked up to find his face close, his dark brown eyes stormy.

He shifted, clearly warring with himself. The flash of a tongue caught her eye as he wet the bottom swell of his lip. She felt a surge of heat, and she stepped out of his grasp, needing to clear her head.

"I-I will not marry you, Erik."

He growled, eyes flashing. "I know this. You have made your position on that matter abundantly clear. However, _if_ I escorted you to New York, I have a price for my help."

"Which is?"

Walking over to the kitchen table, he tugged open the string of a bag that sat there. She had not noticed it earlier. As he spoke, he partitioned out gold coins into several stacks. "You will be auditioning for the Academy of Music, yes? I want to be allowed to continue as your tutor until you sing for them, _and_ I will choose what arrangement you will use."

She wanted to balk at that. However, she knew she would need help if she had any hope of earning a role as an unknown soprano at a different opera house. She nodded. "Anything else?"

The clinking of the gold coins paused. His back was to her. When he spoke, his voice was rough. "I had never… touched my lips to a woman's before you stole those first two kisses from me." He turned enough so that a single dark eye alighted on her, burning her with its intensity. "I will be allowed to take them back."

She drew her hands up to her chest as though that could possibly dissuade him. "I told you that I would not be yours."

"Two kisses, Christine. That is all I ask of you."

Her cheeks were aflame as she stammered, "N-Now?"

He scooped a handful of coins into his palm and strode over to her. Slowly, he drew one of her hands into his own and deposited the coins into it. "One kiss, when our ship departs the shore of this country." He curled her gloved fingers around the coins. "One, when you join the company of this opera house."

"W-What if they do not accept me there?"

The smooth side of his mouth curled upward. "They will. When they hear you sing, they will have no choice but to fall in love with you."

She glanced down at the coins in her fist. "What are these for?"

"Travel clothes and other items you might require." He casually turned back to the bag of gold and began to refill it, but she could see the tension in his movements. "Do you accept my terms, my dear?"

She swallowed. He wanted to resume his guidance of her singing as her music teacher. They had easily fallen into those roles before, and she thought they could do so again.

And he wanted two kisses, freely given.

She remembered the feel of his lips upon hers. He offered her a chance at a new life full of music again, and in return, he asked for so little.

She cleared her throat. "I do."

* * *

 **Next up: Some secrets can't stay hidden for long, not even from Raoul.**


	11. Confessions

**Good God, this chapter almost killed me.**

* * *

 **Chapter 11: Confessions**

Christine sat by the fire, a cup cradled in her hands. She finally felt warm again after her long walk to Erik's apartment. After he agreed to accompany her to New York, to aid her in her quest to begin anew her singing career there, her skittering heart had calmed. No matter what happened from then on, she had a new direction for her life to take. The anxiety she had felt whenever she thought about marrying Raoul had begun to fade.

Of course, she had yet to speak to Raoul. She did not have the strength to do so tonight.

Erik's request echoed in her head: _"Two kisses, Christine. That is all I ask of you."_

Strangely, these direct parameters for what he wanted from her had helped relax her tonight. She knew what he wanted, and at least she had until they boarded a ship to deal with it. Perhaps that is why she had gathered enough courage to ask if she could spend the night here.

She could have sworn his ears had turned red at the tips.

When she had explained how Raoul's father had tried to find out from the stagecoach driver where she had been, Erik agreed to let her stay here. In the morning, she would take a coach to Madame Giry's and explain what was going on. She could at least be honest with Meg, and that would alleviate some of her guilt at sneaking around.

Erik had gone to the bedroom to clean off the bed after insisting she take the room.

She sipped the last bit of her tea. A week ago, she would never have known this would be the route her life would take. She felt… almost giddy.

"Christine."

She jerked her eyes from the fire to see Erik standing at the hallway, tall and lanky-limbed, every bit the image of a composed man. She knew what lurked beneath the surface of his groomed exterior.

He motioned for her to follow. She rinsed her cup in the basin and walked with him to the bedroom. He had put his belongings away and closed the trunk that rested at the foot of the bed.

"These linens are clean," he said, sweeping a hand at the bed. "There is a towel if you need it." He was all seriousness, regarding her with eyes hooded behind his mask. "Do you need anything else?"

"No, thank you. Would you wake me as soon as the sun rises?"

"Of course." He strode to the door, murmuring a soft "good night" before he closed it behind him.

There was no mirror to help her unpin her hair, but she managed to pull her tresses free and set the pins aside to use in the morning. She quickly peeled off the layers of her pale blue gown before crawling beneath the covers in her chemise and stockings. The pillow and blankets smelled freshly laundered. Did Erik ever even sleep in this bed? She heard the dull thud of his footsteps moving about the apartment before he too seemed to settle.

She slept better than she thought she would that night.

* * *

Christine woke to the sound of brisk knocking on the door. For a moment, she was disoriented, not remembering where she was. Hazily, she sat up, looking around the small room. The events of last night washed over her.

"I am awake," she called out, her dry throat cracking.

A pause, and then Erik's familiar voice answered, "I will make tea."

She knew she must be a mess, her hair a pile of tangled curls hanging around her shoulders. She pulled on her rumpled clothes the best she could and tried to fix her hair by feel alone. She hurried to across the hall to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face and arms.

When she was finally ready, she walked down the hall to see Erik sitting at the small table near his kitchen. His back was to her, the lines of his shoulders encased in an impeccable tailcoat, the black hair of his wig neatly combed. He set down a teacup to snap open a newspaper before him.

Streams of dim morning sunlight fell across the room. She realized with an odd thrill that she had never seen him during the day.

"Good morning."

The wooden chair creaked as he turned to look at her. He wore his now usual black mask, but the bloated side of his mouth was more pronounced in daylight. She thought she understood why he had always preferred the night, when shadows could hide details he never wished anyone to scrutinize.

"Good morning, Christine. I trust the bed was sufficient?"

"More than." She did not want to be caught staring, so she gave a small smile and busied herself by pouring her own cup from the heated kettle. "Thank you for letting me stay here."

He only nodded and returned to his paper. This moment was so… normal, that she contented herself with standing by the stove, letting the residual heat wash over her. They both sipped their tea in a comfortable silence with only the clinking of porcelain and the rustle of his paper to be heard.

Then she heard him set his cup down heavily, jarring her from her peacefulness. "What is it?" she asked, moving to his side.

In reply, he folded the newspaper so that only a particular section was visible and held it up. She only had to glance at it to see what it was: her wedding announcement.

"Do you think I am a coward?" she asked. _For running away last night, for avoiding the conversation I have to have today_.

He lifted his head to look at her. In daylight, his eyes were not as dark, the color more amber than brown. "I cannot think of anyone I find braver than the woman who stands before me."

His words were so simply spoken, but they still brought a pleased flush to her cheeks.

He briskly closed the newspaper, hiding the words that proclaimed she was to marry Raoul in mere weeks. "Do you still wish to move ahead with your plan?"

"Of course." Sleeping on it had not changed her mind in the least. "When… when do you think we could leave?"

He stood and cleared away their cups. "The longer I stay in this city, the more I risk being noticed."

She nodded, understanding. "I only need a day or so to prepare." It was not like she had many possessions anyway, and she could buy what she needed today with the coins he had given her.

"That soon, Christine?" He paused, regarding her with utter seriousness. "You are leaving behind the life you have had. Do you not need more time?"

She shook her head. "Please."

"As you wish. We will take a train to Le Havre, and from there we can buy tickets aboard a ship." Walking over to the front door, he placed his wide-brimmed hat upon his head and swept on his cloak. "I will call a cab for you. You have much to do, I am sure." And he was gone, returning a moment later, seemingly a bit disgruntled. "This city, always so busy. The driver is waiting for you for an extra charge."

"Oh." She felt a bit like he was kicking her out, but her heart began to flutter with excitement. Her mind spun as she thought of everything she needed to accomplish. She was leaving Paris! Leaving France altogether. Before last night, the possibility had never seemed to exist in reality.

"I could have walked," she added. "The Palais boarding house is not far."

He just stood there, waiting for her to indicate she was leaving. Stubborn man. She doubted he would let her have any sort of control in how they traveled, but she had not ventured out of Paris since her father died. She did not mind letting him take the reins.

She wanted to show him how she was feeling, and so she moved toward him. Before he could have time to pull away, she stepped close and tucked her arms around his trim waist. He sucked in a sharp breath, as frozen as cold marble against her. His cloak fluttered around her, brushing her shoulders as she laid her cheek against its familiar dark embroidery. His arms were stiff at his sides.

For a moment, she was reminded of the last time she had hugged him, when the earth seemed to shatter beneath her feet. He had been too stunned by her sudden kiss to hug her back. His arms had quivered around her, his hands blindly reaching to barely caress the fringes of her hair.

"Thank you," she whispered. Intending to release him, she loosened her arms.

But without warning, he crushed her to him, his arms solid and sure around her, his body bending around hers, enveloping her in this first rare embrace. His breath panted hot in the crook of her neck and shoulder, his heartbeat frantic beneath her ear. His hug was everything she had dreamed it might be – a frantic clutching of limbs, a warmth spreading throughout her, a body trying desperately to fold itself into something meant to comfort rather than destroy.

For what seemed like eternity, he held her close, until finally they both relaxed and stepped out of each other's arms. She chanced a timid smile. His own lips were slightly parted.

He seemed to rouse himself. "Two days," he croaked. "I will send a cab early in the morning."

"Two days," she agreed. She backed away lest she do something she might regret, and she slipped out the door.

The stagecoach took her to the boarding house down the street from the Palais Garnier, the cramped flats with which she was so very familiar. She quickly disembarked, headed up the steps, knocked on the Girys' door.

Meg answered, taking in her appearance with wide eyes before ushering her in without a word. Madame Giry was sitting at the kitchen table and reading the morning paper, a reverberation of what Erik had done. The older woman glanced up at Christine, then tapped a hand upon the newspaper.

"Monsieur le Vicomte has already been by this morning, looking for you." Antoinette set her fierce eyes upon her. "If we are to lie for you, it is best you start from the beginning."

Christine swallowed past the lump in her throat and nodded.

* * *

An hour later, Christine walked through the front door of the de Chagny estate, armed with a corroborated story that at least seemed plausible enough. From the glances she received from the staff as she entered, news of her disappearance had traveled throughout the household.

"Where is Raoul?" she asked the butler.

"I last saw him upstairs, mademoiselle," he answered. "Do you require breakfast?"

"No, thank you. I already ate."

As she made her way up the grand staircase, she slipped off each of her gloves. After this was over, she needed to take a hot bath and change out of this gown.

Somewhere down the hall, she could hear other voices murmuring behind closed doors. However, the door to her own room was open, which was a bit odd and alarming. As she stepped into the doorframe, she caught sight of her belongings scattered about the room. Her trunk was open, the contents spilling out. The drawers of her desk were askew, and the linens upon her bed were drawn back even though she had not slept there last night.

Raoul sat in a chair beside the bed, head in his hands. She took a few steps into the room, drawing his attention.

"Christine," he said. His eyes were bloodshot as though he had not slept… or had been drinking heavily. Or both.

"What is this?" she asked, gesturing. She hurried closer to see, and her breath caught in her throat.

Upon the bed, laid out in a straight line, were all the items she had sought to hide from him. The ornate pistol with its bullets that Nadir had given her. The note written in Erik's penmanship that quoted "Song of the Moon." The leather-bound original copy of _Don Juan_.

And Erik's half mask, gleaming white upon her sheets.

Raoul's face darkened in anger. "What is this?" he echoed. "Should I not be asking _you_ that, Christine?"

"You have been going through my things," she accused, even though that was now obvious. She started to straighten the room, starting with tucking her clothing back into her trunk. Her father's violin case, which she always kept safely cocooned within her softer undergarments, had been set aside. She placed it back where it belonged. "You had no right."

" _No right?_ " Raoul spat, lurching to his feet. "You disappeared last night without a word! I've traveled half the city looking for you."

"You did not have to. I was with Meg."

"So you say. So they say." He grabbed the mask and shoved it in her face. "What kind of person keeps such a thing hidden in a bag under their bed?" He tossed it onto the mattress and took up the slip of paper, almost rending it in two in his haste to present it. "And this, _this_ reads like a love letter!"

She shrugged. "It is not."

The original composition of _Don Juan_ was next, heavy in his hands as he lifted it. "Why would you keep this? Such a vile piece of filth written by a madman and meant to tear us apart." He was almost shouting by now. He stalked to the empty fireplace. "We should burn it."

"No!" she cried, grabbing onto his elbow. "Please, Raoul, calm down so we can speak with each other."

He shook her off and tossed the document into the pile of ash leftover in the fireplace. "The gun, Christine?"

"Only for protection when I need it." That, at least, was true.

She tried to ward him back, but he was pushing past her, returning to the bed to snatch up the mask again. His eyes were hard as he lifted the piece of porcelain to his own face. She gasped with fright at the sight of him, his blonde locks tumbling over the top of the mask, blue eyes wild. "Why do you have such a thing, Christine?" he demanded. "Tell me _why_!"

"I do not know. For God's sake, take it off, Raoul!" Lunging at him, she dug into the mask with her fingers and wrenched it from him. She felt her fingernails grab into the skin of his forehead, and before she knew what was happening, she had scratched two furrows down the side of his temple.

He stumbled back from her, clapping a hand to his head, but she had already seen the bright red welts starting to form.

"I am so sorry!" she said, clutching the mask with one hand and trying to pacify him with her other. He stepped out of her reach, his eyes full of betrayal. "I did not mean to."

"Mean to what, Christine?" His voice quavered, anger mixed with sorrow. For a moment, they stared across the void at each other. Then, he choked, "You are leaving me, aren't you?"

"Yes."

Oh how easily the word slipped free from her mouth, but she was so tired of holding herself back. "Yes, I am. I…am so sorry that it took this long for me to realize what I wanted. I am sorry to put you through all of this."

She expected him to shout at her some more, to throw ugly accusations about how she had toyed with his feelings or lied about wanting to marry him. Instead, he ducked his head down and walked out of the room.

She could not muster enough desire to follow him. Besides, what could she say?

Her footsteps echoed loudly in the empty room as she finished straightening up. She took the items he had spread across the bed and tucked them into her trunk. She did not bother changing her clothes before she shakily asked a footman to hail a cab for her.

She left the engagement ring upon her dressing table.

This time, when she knocked on Meg's door, her friend was waiting with open arms to soothe her tears.

* * *

When Erik had begun preparations for leaving the city, he had expected to be alone. Now, the woman who had been the focus of all his hopes for the future had demanded she go with him. Instead of one train ticket to Le Havre, he was now purchasing two.

He did not fool himself into believing this was more than what it was. Christine had asked him to accompany her to New York, to ensure her safety in a trip that could be dangerous for women traveling alone. He would be her guide and protector. And once again, he would be her maestro as she navigated what she would sing for her audition.

So when he climbed up the side of the Palais Garnier's boarding house and squeezed onto the narrow balcony, he told himself he did so to complete his unfinished business with Madame Giry.

Not to check that Christine had not changed her mind.

This was not the first time he had perched outside this window. When he tapped on the glass, he heard rustling from within the room. Soon, Antoinette unlatched the tall double doors, dressed in a thick black wrapper, her dressing gown peeking out where she had not taken the time to button it past her knees. Her hair, streaked with gray, was loose around her narrow shoulders. Typically, she expected his visits. Of course, he was supposed to be dead.

Still, the woman did not appear too surprised at seeing him.

He stepped through the opening in the window, blocking the lamp light from the street with the bulk of his body. She moved aside, lighting a single candle.

She clutched the ruffles at the top of her gown together, a nervous gesture. "Please leave," she whispered as though trying to avoid waking others.

"I only need a moment of your time," he replied in a clipped tone.

"The girls. They sleep in just the other room." She took him in, eyes a little uneasy. She was afraid of him? He supposed she had been before, but he knew what had deepened her fear of him. He had murdered someone she knew, even cared about. She had little reason to trust him now.

Girls. So Christine _was_ here. His chest swelled at the knowledge that she was indeed separated from the fop. He turned his attention back to Antoinette. "I came only to speak with you."

Her hand was white-knuckled around the candle holder. "You need not worry. If I wanted to report you to the police, I would have done so two days ago when I learned you were alive."

He nodded, but he was pleased to hear her say it. "If you need anything within the next few weeks, the Persian will be able to help." He pulled a small bag from his waistcoat and set it upon the floor with hardly a rustle of coin, his black cloak billowing around him as he shifted. "I wish I had more to give, but this is enough to support you for a time should you decide to leave this place."

Her eyes did not leave him. " _Why_?"

Such a weighty question. He turned back to the open window, grateful that his wide-brimmed hat hid any expression of his that she might be able to determine. "I have made a lot of… mistakes. Some of those cannot be undone. Let my actions from this moment on seek to ease any guilt you might have for giving me that hairpin."

He moved to step onto the balcony, but he felt a tug upon his cloak. He jerked his head around to stare down at Antoinette, who gripped his cloak by his elbow.

"Christine," she said, quickly letting go. "She has been through so much. I need to know of your intentions with her."

He felt a rush of irritation at her prying inquiry. "You overstep your bounds."

"Her father left her in my care. Erik." She again clutched at her gown, like that might ward his anger away. "She is young, and she has her entire life to live."

"Then let her live it," he bit out. "I am merely doing as she asks of me. Goodbye, Antoinette."

And he was gone before she could speak anymore to him, sliding down the pipe alongside the building and disappearing into the darkness.

What he desired did not matter anymore. Christine wanted a protector, a maestro, and he would be that for her. He would take what he could while he could take it, and if she cast him aside once they were in New York, he would at least take his memories of her with him.

* * *

The two days passed with a quickness that Christine did not quite expect. She had spent the time buying a few new articles of clothing: two thick linen dresses, a woolen shawl, a new wrapper for the bathroom. She had heard that travel aboard a ship crossing the ocean could be inevitably cold, and she wanted to be as prepared as she could be.

She also collected a few items to amuse herself, knowing that the days would be long out there on the ocean with little to do or see. She managed to fit a small collection of favorite novels inside her trunk, as well as a book of Swedish poetry her father had long ago dog-eared. In a moment of irrational spending, she bought a small French book about America, as well as an English grammar book for children that she purchased from Librarie Galignani, the bookstore above which Nadir lived.

Before she could change her mind, she also bought a gift for Erik. Although he had to leave Paris no matter what, she understood that he was uprooting his life for her, and she wanted to show her gratitude.

Finally, the night before arrived. She and Meg stayed up late, trading stories of their years spent together. More than a few tears were shed, but when she woke the next morning, Christine felt… _ready_.

"Your coach has arrived," Madame Giry said, as the first rays of sunlight began to stream outside. The weather had turned toward spring lately, and Christine hoped the lack of rain would hold for the trip to Le Havre.

The driver, along with a stagehand who lived a few doors down, took Christine's trunk downstairs. She kept her travel bag with her, and Meg gave her a wrapped parcel with her favorite bread, cheese, and fruit for the trip. Everyone exchanged hugs, and Christine asked the two women to stay upstairs. Watching them as she drove away seemed too dramatic, and she had promised herself that she would not cry today.

She grabbed onto the handle of the coach to pull herself inside. A man dressed all in black sat on one of the benches, a hat pulled low on his shadowed face. She caught his scent that reminded her of sandalwood and crushed roses, but she did not immediately recognize him. He turned toward her, half of his mouth pulling upward in what seemed like a smile.

"Oh," she said, starting to step back down. "I thought this was my cab."

She let out a small yelp as he darted over to grab hold of her elbow, pulling her into the cab and shutting the door behind her. Before she could do anything, he tapped on the wall of the coach, and they lurched forward. Unbalanced, Christine fell sideways into him.

"Excuse me!" she cried, pushing herself back and sliding to the far side of the bench.

"Christine," the man said, and she recognized the crisp-slide of his tenor as he said her name.

"E-Erik?" She peered more closely at him. "I apologize – I did not –" But it _was_ him. Now that she looked, half of his face was his unblemished side, the eyebrow drawn down in a furrow.

"No matter. I should have warned you."

He tapped a gloved hand against the other side of his face, and she heard the hollow sound of leather. This new mask was a tan color and molded more solidly to his face so as to appear like his real skin. A realistic-looking eyebrow had been applied to the mask. If someone just glanced at him, they would never know he was wearing anything.

This new mask greatly unnerved her, but she held her tongue. "It is all right." She straightened, smoothing her skirts from where they had gotten tangled during her tumble. "Good morning."

"Good morning," he returned smoothly. "I hope you do not mind if we make a stop before the train station."

She shook her head. "Where are we going?"

"You will see." He settled back into the cab, and curious, she watched out the window as they passed across the Seine. It did not take long before she identified the path they were taking. She had traveled this way so often before.

"Oh, Erik," she breathed as they pulled alongside the arched entryway into the cemetery. "Thank you… so much. I had wanted to come here, but I feared I would not have the strength to." She moistened her bottom lip. "Would you come with me?"

In reply, he leaned down and pulled a small bouquet of red roses from under the bench at his feet. "If you wish."

 _I said I would not cry!_ She pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes, then accepted the flowers, inhaling their lovely, familiar scent. The two of them exited the cab and walked to her father's grave. She had so rarely come here during the day, but she liked the way his monument looked in the light, his carved name less oppressive in the sun.

"I love you, Papa," she said, with only a slight quaver. "Take good care of Mama for me, will you? And watch over me, please. I… I hope I make you proud." She laid the flowers below his name, leaned forward, and kissed the top of the gravestone.

Scrubbing furiously at her eyes, she turned back toward Erik, who stood quietly just behind her. He offered his elbow, and she took it, perhaps gripping his arm and leaning into him more than was necessary. When they climbed back into the cab, he said nothing when she kept her arm threaded around his although he remained stiff at her side.

Some time later, they arrived at the Saint-Lazare train station. The clock above the main entrance told her it was a little past nine in the morning. Hearing the sounds of steam engines, whistles, and the bustling of people, her stomach did a little flip-flop of nervousness.

"Our train leaves at 10:30," Erik said, tapping on the cab's wall for the driver to stop. "We should be able to load our belongings and find our seats now."

She noticed how his eyes darted around, taking in every aspect of their surroundings. For a moment, she felt a pang of sympathy. Here was a man who had spent years belowground, actively avoiding other people, and now he was thrust in the middle of one of the busiest train stations in all of Paris.

He exited the cab first, his movements taut. When he offered a hand to help her out, she gave it what she hoped was a comforting squeeze, then wrapped her arm around his like she had at the cemetery. He glanced down at her, a bit surprised, but relaxed into the posture. It was perfectly normal for a man to escort a woman, and he would be less noticeable in the crowd with her to distract passersby. She had been careful to keep his masked side closer to her.

Their trunks were quickly taken off the stagecoach while Erik paid the driver, and he gave swift instructions as to where they should be taken. Soon, they were walking through the crowded train station. Erik seemed to know where to go, though at one point he paused to check two tickets he pulled from his inside coat pocket.

"This way," he murmured.

They passed through several archways and stopped before a waiting train, steam billowing around the long, sleek bulks of passenger cars. Erik stepped over to an attendant, letting his tickets be checked. Then he came back to Christine's side.

"I am going to make sure our luggage makes it aboard. Wait right here?"

She nodded and took the opportunity to people watch. The station was filled with all kinds of people preparing for travel: families with their children, lovers kissing as they parted, single men with serious faces, a few teenagers looking like they were ready for an adventure. A little girl dropped her doll, and when Christine bent to pick it up for her, she heard someone calling her name.

She straightened, looking around. It was not Erik.

"Christine!"

Over the tops of the heads of other people, she saw Raoul, waving a frantic arm in her direction. Panic swelling within her, she did a quick search for Erik, but he had not returned yet. She stood frozen to her spot as Raoul made his way over.

"My God, Christine," he said, panting like he was out of breath from running. "I didn't believe it, but here you are."

"H-How did you know I was here?" she asked. She could barely focus on him, terrified that Erik would reappear at any moment. She grabbed onto Raoul's sleeve, tugging him away. "You have to leave!"

He took her shoulders insistently. "Meg told me. Now, don't be mad at her; I really gave her no choice. Come on, Christine, I am going to take you home now."

"I am not going back." She tried to pull away from him, but he held tight. "I have made up my mind, Raoul."

She had not seen him since that horrible moment in her room at the de Chagny estate, and she had kept her thoughts carefully away from him the past few days. Now, the tears she had been withholding all morning threatened to spill over, clouding her vision.

He would not turn loose of her shoulders. "Is this about your wanting to sing? If it means that much to you, we can find a way for you to continue in Rome."

"No, Raoul!"

"At dinner parties, surely. And maybe a gala now and then."

She wrenched her shoulders free with a cry. As she jerked back, she caught sight of a dark shape near the train car. Erik stood mere yards away, staring at them with shadowed eyes. She gave her head a little shake, willing him to stay back. She did not miss the way his hand was tucked into his pants pocket, and fear surged within her.

Raoul noticed her distraction and followed her line of sight. "Christine, who is that?"

"P-Please, Raoul," she begged.

He took a few determined steps toward Erik, squinting. His chest swelled as he sucked in a sharp breath. "It can't be."

She was shaking now, feeling too small to stand between these two men. "You cannot do this here. There are too many people." Her words were not just for Raoul; she knew who else had keen hearing.

Raoul did not try to push past her. If anything, he seemed to deflate, even as she could feel Erik's presence burning with fury behind her. "It all makes so much sense now," he said. "The lies, the hiding from me, the sudden want to sing again." He turned his blue eyes upon her, and she could not stand the accusing look of them.

"Please," she pleaded again. "Let us go. Let _me_ go."

"How could you possibly give up everything we had for that- that _monster_ , Christine? Have you forgotten everything he did to you, to us, to your friends? He should be in prison, soon to be hanged!"

"If you condemn him, then you condemn me too." She spread her hands before her, beseeching him. "I am getting on that train, and I need you to just _walk away_."

"Do you love him?"

The question was like a splash of cold water in her face. Erik still stood at her back, listening to every word they said, and she could no more wave him away than she could move stone. Her answer should come easily, for she had whispered it to herself every night since she had first journeyed to that black underground home.

She straightened her spine. Her words would hurt two men no matter what she said, and so she hurt them both. "I love the stage. And he is my best hope of becoming a prima donna in a new company. I hope you can understand at least that."

Raoul stared at her for a long moment as though seeing her clearly for the first time.

"Then I guess we are done here." One of his hands lifted, about to touch her face, and then dropped to his side. "Goodbye, Christine."

Rooted to the spot, she watched as he made his way back through the crowd, his tawny head disappearing.

She half-expected Erik to come to her side, but he remained where he was near the passenger car. He did not look at her as she approached, dark eyes riveted at the spot where Raoul had vanished.

"He will give us away," he said with malice.

"No, he won't." She wanted to touch him, but he vibrated with tension. He could so easily break away from her and follow Raoul, and that fear finally prompted her to lay a hand upon his chest, just below his necktie.

He snatched her hand, but instead of driving her away, he merely held it within his own. "Am I supposed to trust him with my life?" he hissed.

"No," she said softly, "entrust it to _me_."

Finally, he turned those eyes upon her. She thought back to the conversation he had overheard, and the answer she had given Raoul. Had she ever given him enough reason to trust her? She was not sure she wanted to know, but she hoped her actions over the past week had proven that she could earn such confidence.

 _Christine, I love you_.

She applied a bit of pressure to his chest, relieved when he allowed her to steer him toward the train. They did not speak as they climbed aboard and found two seats in the back of the car.

The wait to leave felt like an eternity to Christine. She breathed easier when the train's whistle blew, and they finally began to move along the track. They pulled out of the station, and soon, Paris's tall buildings were left behind, traded for miles of open countryside still dreary-colored at the end of winter.

Early on in the trip, she turned toward the man sitting next to her. "Erik-" she began, but he held up a finger to his lips, indicating it was best they not speak among so many other people.

She nodded, ignoring the sting. Weary, she closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, they were pulling into a different station. The salty tang of the sea was in her nose. Erik gripped her hand almost painfully, jerking his eyes to the exit. Would there be police waiting for them? If so, they would have run yet again?

However, when they reached Le Havre, they were able to slip into the crowd of bustling travelers without notice. Raoul had given her a final parting gift: his silence.

* * *

 **Onward: the new phase of our journey.**


	12. Sail

**I'm SORRY it has been so long! Work has eaten up my life since Spring Break. I hope you enjoy this chapter. Let me know. :)**

* * *

 **Chapter 12: Sail**

They climbed four flights of stairs to reach one of the rooms in the inn Erik had chosen. He unlocked the door with a rusty key and ushered her inside. Behind them, men lowered their trunks with a thud. Erik paid them all a few coins, and then he and Christine were alone.

She went to the single window in the room and tossed back the heavy curtain. From up here, she could see the spread of Le Havre before her – mostly low buildings, cottages, and warehouses for processing supplies. Beyond these buildings, the sparkling line of la Manche glittered in the distance, broken up by the dark spires and puffy white sails of ships along the coast.

Erik stood silently behind her, and she could feel the heavy way his eyes bore into her back. Was he trying to study whether or not she would change her mind?

Was he thinking about what she had promised him once they were aboard a ship?

She looked over her shoulder, giving him an uncertain smile. His flesh-colored half mask still unnerved her. She was unused to seeing him in the daylight, standing around in a crowd, speaking with strangers like he was any other man.

"I have seen la Manche before," she said, "but it has been a very long time. I had forgotten just how _vast_ it is. What do the English call it? The Channel?" She turned back to the window, watching the way the sunlight glinted off the water. In the distance, a ship with three large sails slowly inched across the horizon.

She heard the skitter of Erik's boots across the wood floor as he came to stand just behind her, gazing over her shoulder at the water. She tried to ignore the heat of his body, evident even despite the thick shawl she still wore.

When he spoke, his voice was pensive. "I admit, I have traveled extensively. After a while, everywhere seemed the same - the same ground and sky and not much beyond that. The people, they might speak different languages and wear different clothes, but in the end, they are also the same mix of emotions: anger, fear. Hate." He stared through the window. Below them, people milled about the narrow road. This was a city full of people that had somewhere to go, people trying to change the situation of their lives.

Christine knew little about Erik's past, so she could only imagine the memories he thought of right now. In this cramped little inn, she could hear muddled, indecipherable voices, men and women and children speaking to each other. Somewhere, she could hear a baby wailing.

"People are more than anger and fear, Erik," she said softly, turning to face him. In the light from the window, his narrowed eyes reflected a golden fire. "They are more than hate."

"Then you have led a very different life than I."

She laid a gloved hand on his arm, ignoring that he flinched. "Is that what you think of me?"

His eyes swiveled to meet hers for a brief moment before jerking away. "I have seen you offer many emotions up to the world, my dear. However, can you say with honesty they have been more than that when turned toward me?"

"I don't hate you, Erik."

He stepped back from the window, away from her reach. "Do you still wish to go to America?" When she nodded, speechless, he strode with quick steps to the door. "Then I will go in search of tickets aboard a ship. Wait for me here, and try to rest."

Before she could gather a response, he was gone, locking the door behind him.

She did not have to wonder much about what had gotten into him today. The encounter with Raoul had shaken him, and she knew he had heard the words Raoul had said. Calling him a monster.

Less than two weeks ago, she had said the very words Erik now mentioned: she had said she _hated_ him. In that moment beneath the opera, she _had_ hated him. Raoul had struggled for breath with a rope around his neck, and she wore a wedding gown into which she had been forced. She'd had every right to have hated him then.

But while she bubbled with a nervous energy during this trip to a new country, she wondered if he felt the same way. He was going to New York with no prospects of a job, without the promise of her hand in marriage, or even the promise of any affection from her.

No wonder he had bargained for kisses.

Taking off her cloak, she washed the grime of the day's travels from her face, neck, and arms and settled into the chair. The room was small with a single bed pushed against one of the walls, a table near the bed, and this armchair. Erik had gone for inexpensive with the thought that she would not have to spend more than one night here, and she did not mind. She had stayed in far worse places than this while traveling with Papa.

Le Havre was a bustling city, the largest port in France. Ships had sailed in and out of le Havre for centuries, taking advantage of the calmer channel waters and the easier access to countries like England. Christine herself had ventured to England only once, when her father had taken up a brief residency at a university. Even though she longed to venture out and explore the city, to walk up and down the coastline, she did not want to stir Erik's anger more than she already had.

The train ride from Paris had taken a little over four hours, and she had slept for much of that. Even though Erik had asked that she rest, her body was nearly thrumming with energy. She paced the room for a while and threw open the window to let in a cool, salty breeze. Digging in her travel bag, she found a book to peruse, but her mind was too focused on the upcoming trip to digest the words. Instead, she found herself dragging the chair to the window to watch people walk along the street.

Several hours later, as the winter sun set and the gas lamps were lit, Erik returned. He carried some papers, as well as a package tied with string. She could tell from the heavenly smells that he had found them some dinner. He set the package upon the table and tucked the papers into his suit pocket.

"Took some extra coin, but I found us two adjoining cabins aboard a ship leaving tomorrow morning."

She smiled, delighted with the news. "That is terrific, Erik. I have been watching the ships coming and going all afternoon. There are so many!"

"Indeed, but the larger vessels only head out about once a week, depending on how quickly they can fill their rooms. The spring travel season is only just beginning, and people are eager to sail abroad. Our ship is called _La Roche Constante_. It has a decent reputation for safety, and it is large enough that we may be able to blend in without causing attention to ourselves."

"I guess with a name like _The Steady Rock_ , it should be?"

"Even so." Erik swept off his cloak and hung it on a hook near the door, setting his hat atop it. "We should form a story to tell to other passengers who might want to pry. With twelve hundred other people aboard, there are few places to hide upon a ship."

"Can we eat while we talk? This food smells delicious!"

He swept a long-fingered hand at the food, giving her permission while he tugged off his gloves and laid them aside. As she unfolded the parcel of food, she tried not to stare as he came closer, resting on the edge of the bed across from her. She still found the flesh-colored mask unnerving, especially now that she had turned up the gas lamp in the room. In the lower light, the mask looked almost real, the rigidness of the features throwing off her equilibrium.

She did not like this new mask, not at all.

" _Moules à la Normande,_ " Erik said, taking her pause to mean she was confused by the food. "I thought you might enjoy trying a common dish from this region. The mussels are cooked with apples and cream. I bought a little bit of baguette and camembert cheese as well, if you need something heavier."

"Thank you." The mussels were still steaming, so she delicately lifted one shell, blowing on it to cool. The soft yellow meat slid easily into her mouth, the creaminess delighting her taste buds. So rich, with a hint of crisp apple. "It's good!" she said, and had two more before she realized that Erik was just sitting there, watching her eat, the exposed edge of his lips curled slightly upward.

She picked up another shell and offered it to him, but he shook his head. "I will eat later, after we have gone over our plans."

"Alone?" She frowned at that. He had declined to share her meal on the train as well. Had she ever seen the man eat before? "There is plenty here – we can share it."

"Really, Christine, that is not necessary." He shifted on the bed, clearly trying to push aside his annoyance.

"Food tastes better when shared." She pushed the mussel at him again. "We are going to be traveling together for quite some time. Do you expect to avoid eating in front of me forever?"

"Christine-"

"Just try it, Erik." Before he could snatch his hand away, she plopped the shell onto his palm and went back to her meal, pointedly ignoring whatever decision he made after that. She understood perhaps where his hesitation came from. His lips, twisted and deformed as they were, likely made eating with any sort of grace impossible.

He held the mussel in his hand for a length of time that might have been comical under different circumstances. Finally, as she watched out of the corner of her eye, he lifted the shell and tipped the meat into his mouth, his lips parted just enough to slip the bite inside. He patted his lips dry with a handkerchief and chewed carefully.

"Good?" she asked, trying not to smile too much.

"Indeed." To her delight, he reached and took another one. Together, they split the mussels, and he allowed her to happily eat the bread and gooey camembert cheese all on her own.

"So, what is our plan?" she asked, after they had finished and cleaned up.

"On the surface, it is a simple one. We will board _La Roche Constante_ in the morning, but going through clearance for travel might take a while. Once allowed on the ship, we will be directed to our two staterooms where we may unpack until we begin to disembark. From there, we merely wait out the days until we reach New York."

"How many days?"

"Ten, including the days we leave and arrive."

Christine leaned her elbow on the table, resting her cheek upon her hand thoughtfully. "A long time to be out on the sea."

"Which is why we should be ever careful." He gazed at her with serious golden brown eyes. "Ten days is a long time for gossip to grow aboard a ship, especially when it is full of rich wives and businessmen with nothing more to do than meddle into the lives of the people around them. Our stories should match."

"Stories?" she echoed. "You mean of who we are?" She huffed a bit at the thought of having to play a role even during her real life, but she understood why Erik was asking this of her. His next words mirrored her own thoughts.

"If you truly want to become a successful diva in America, you want to shed any controversy that surrounded you here."

"A fresh start."

He nodded. "I thought it best that we invent a blood relationship between us, as this kind of story would allow us to stay in close contact without raising the suspicions of our fellow passengers."

Ha! She grinned at him. "Brother and sister, dear Erik?"

He did not share her sense of humor in this. "I am far too old to be your brother, Christine. And I have no wish to take the place of your father. I thought perhaps uncle."

She made a face, not liking the idea. " _Mon oncle_ Erik? That sounds dreadful!"

"Even so, it is necessary. I will claim to be a merchant of goods from the Orient – an easy enough topic for me to invent details. You may claim singing as your hobby, but as a good niece should, you are moving with me to America to find a suitable marriage among the upper class there."

Her cheeks heated. "Surely you are joking."

"Not at all," he replied smoothly. "Our goal is to escape as much notice as possible. I trust you can play your role, Christine?"

She was sure she could, but still, she disliked being told how to act onboard the ship. How was she supposed to conceal her true life from everyone she met? She sighed and tapped her fingers on the table. She had no choice.

* * *

Soon, Erik bid her goodnight and retreated to his own room down the hall.

He did not have much more to prepare that he had not already dealt with before leaving Paris. Draping a towel over the mirror in the room, he removed his mask and pressed a wet cloth to the enflamed skin there. The leather mask tended to heat against his skin, causing chafing that left his irregular features red and sore. His usual porcelain mask fit his face better and stayed cooler to the touch. Unfortunately, he had little choice if he wanted to slip unnoticed across the Atlantic. He did not want any ghosts from his past to follow him to New York.

Except Christine. Every moment he spent in her presence reminded him of the reasons he had fallen in love with her. She was beautiful – yes, of course – but she still looked upon him with such exuberance in her gaze. Even though she might sometimes shrink from him, she could immediately blaze to life in the next moment.

How he would manage to say goodbye to her when the time came, he had no idea yet.

He knew sleep would be difficult to come by on the ship, so he did his best to relax upon the narrow bed and at least close his eyes for a while. Behind his eyelids, he saw the way her cheeks grew pink at the thought of her future marriage. He had said such words only to provoke her outrage, but such _was_ the end result for most women. She would need some kind of patron to support her singing career. As soon as she established herself in New York, she would have no trouble in securing a suitable match.

Rolling to face the wall, he forced himself to slip into a light, fitful sleep.

The next morning, he found Christine dressed in suitable traveling clothes, a bright smile upon her face.

"Good morning!"

"Indeed, it is," he returned. "I have a cab waiting for us downstairs. We should be able to make our way to the ship and start the process of boarding."

Although the crisp morning air was chilly, the sun was already beginning to peak over the treetops behind them. As luck would have it, and if the weather would hold, their day of embarking might be a smooth one.

They traveled the short distance to the correct dock in the shipyard. Christine's energy was palpable, rolling off her in waves as she could barely sit still in the coach.

 _La Roche_ loomed lengthwise against the dock, its black bulk blocking the view of the channel. Its sails, used as backup in case they were needed, were tightly furled, and the ship vibrated lightly with the force of its resting engines.

Arriving early seemed to be the thought on everyone's mind, and the dock was filled with passengers, their belongings piled high around them. Erik let out a growl of frustration at the crowd, but he forced himself to relax when he felt Christine lay a hand on his arm. She gave him a soft smile, then sat upon her trunk and pulled out the morning paper to read. Without saying anything, she offered him a page.

He sighed the last of his annoyance and took the paper, joining her upon his own trunk.

Finally, their turn to board arrived. As stewards carried their luggage, they stopped to meet the chief steward and Captain Santelli, who were both near the top of the primary boarding ramp to greet first class passengers.

While Christine stood wide-eyed at his elbow, Erik answered the chief steward's questions so they could be added to the ship's manifest of passengers. He listed his own occupation as merchant, and both of their home countries as France.

When asked for their full names, he gave them as Erik and Christine Daaé.

He felt Christine blanch at his side, turning her wondering stare to his face, but he pointedly disregarded her. Perhaps he should have warned her that he would share her surname for the duration of this voyage, but he had not wanted her to be able to protest.

Captain Santelli wished them well on their trip, and they were led on board.

It would take some time for belongings to be delivered to rooms, as well as for someone to show them how to reach their cabins. In the meantime, he and Christine wandered the promenade decks, where she was able to choose a lounge chair spot that she might enjoy. A bell signaled that tea was being served inside at one of the dining halls for passengers who were already on board, and since they had now skipped luncheon, Christine tugged him to join the first-class throng that had formed.

Erik drank, but that was it, not enjoying the curious looks the other travelers were starting to throw his way. The mask was more noticeable in close quarters, and soon, some foolhardy soul would question him about it. If Christine noticed his discomfort, she said nothing of it, though he would not have wanted to discuss it in any case.

Finally, a steward fetched them to show them to their rooms.

The first sign that something might have gone wrong with their reservation came when the steward, reading the names off his list, called them Monsieur and _Madame_ Daaé.

Christine shot him a concerned look, noticing the error. Jaw clenched, Erik followed the steward down several decks and a long hallway until they reached a door with a number 56 upon it. Around them, other first-class passengers busied themselves with giving orders on how their luggage would be delivered and unpacked.

The steward unlocked the door and handed Erik two keys. "Monsieur, while this is one of our smaller staterooms, and the beds are separate, you will find a private deck just beyond that door. The bathroom is only two doors down and shared with one other family. I believe they have claimed morning baths, if the second half of the day is acceptable to you?"

The man went on about the features of the room, but Erik was livid, hearing nothing else.

"Where is our other room?" he asked, nearly snarling.

The steward, a man who seemed to be used to being yelled at, calmly reassessed the ledger in his hands. "I apologize, monsieur, but the records have put you in this room. The one room for the two of you." He leaned over to peer at Christine. "Is this not acceptable to you and your wife?"

 _Wife_? Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Christine flush.

"I asked for and _paid for_ two adjoining rooms," he said, clenching a fist to keep his temper in check.

Apologizing again, the man excused himself to speak with his superior. While waiting, Erik surveyed the small room and the fairly opulent furnishings Two narrow beds rested to either side. At the head of one was a dresser, at the other, a table with a chair. At the far end of the room, a door led outside to a small deck. Next to that, a divan rested. In the corner, a basin with two taps for running water jutted out of the wall; above it, was a mirror.

It was here that Erik caught his own reflection. His body, swathed in black from head to toe, loomed in the richly-wallpapered room. He stood out like some looming apparition that did not belong there, certainly not among the rest of the genteel. His mask clung to his face like a pale, dead thing, and his uncovered cheek bloomed red with rage.

In the mirror, he also saw Christine standing next to him. Her gloved hands were clasped together, curled upward against her chest as though protecting herself.

With a snap of his cape, he pivoted away from the mirror, putting the tense line of his back to Christine. Was that the face she saw whenever he grew angry?

The steward returned, beginning with an apology. "Monsieur, a mistake at the counter must have been made when you purchased your tickets. We have no first or second-class adjoined rooms still available." He paused, glancing down at the paperwork he carried. "I can return your money so that you may purchase tickets aboard a different ship, or we can reimburse you for the extra room."

Erik tightened his hands into fists. What incompetence, and in such a way that would it difficult to travel without constant impending adversity. He could share a room with Christine and remain gentlemanly toward her – of course he could. However, he could not presume to know Christine's feelings on the matter, and he did not dare turn to look at her lest he see disgust – or worse yet, fear.

A slight pressure upon the crook of his elbow caused him to jerk his eyes downward to see Christine's petite gloved fingers clasping his arm.

"Erik, dear," he heard her say softly, "this room will be fine, won't it? We even have a whole deck to ourselves."

Stunned, he gathered enough courage to meet her eyes. There, he saw only kindness, along with more than a little defiance. Her cheeks were slightly pink, but her grip on his arm was a gesture meant to comfort.

Comfort him.

She turned to the steward. "Thank you for the help. I assume there will be some further compensation for our trouble?"

The man bowed. "Of course, madame. I will let the captain know and take my leave."

Once they were alone, Erik expected Christine to release his arm and step away, but she did not, leaving her hand there as though it belonged. She gave him a small smile and squeezed his arm again.

"I guess we won't be uncle and niece, will we?"

He let out a snort at that. "A fair assumption." Then he hesitated, because he did not want his next words to be misunderstood. "Christine-"

She cut him off by moving away, to her trunk, where she began to unpack various items: bodices, skirts, accessories. "Please tell me this was not some sort of ploy on your part to entrap me into some kind of pretend marriage."

"Of course not." He stalked to her side, grasping her shoulder to turn her around to face him. "I did attempt to set up separate rooms for us. If- if the thought of sharing a room with me is so detestable to you, then I am sure I can arrange a bed for myself in steerage instead."

She frowned at that. "I would never ask you to do that."

"And yet you insinuate that I somehow planned _this_." He swept an angry arm at the room with its two beds.

"What am I supposed to think, Erik?"

He could hear the frustration in her voice, the way she fidgeted and did not quite meet his eyes, belaying how uncomfortable the topic made her. So, she had spoken so nicely with the steward to get him to leave?

Erik had little to pitch against her argument. He did not have a good record of letting her make her own choices, after all.

When he did not give a reply, she sighed, and he felt the warmth of her breath on his cheek. "I was rather surprised to hear the names you gave the captain."

"Ah." He straightened, arms at his sides, gazing at her. "I had to make a decision, and I thought it best that you keep your own name. After you are established in New York, we will part ways, will we not? My own surname will mean little at that point."

The gloves made a soft slap against the top of the dresser as she tapped her fingers. "What _is_ your real name?"

They had to do this now? She was trying to find a reason to trust him again, but he could give no straightforward answer. "I was abandoned at an orphanage, Christine. Any name is as good as any other." He grew weary of this talk. "If you wish, I will change my name to something else other than Daaé. We can explain it away somehow."

She did meet his eyes now. "Erik, I-"

A loud blow of the ship's horn sounded, the rumbling felt within their feet. He could hear the muffled noises of other passengers stirring, excited voices echoing off the walls.

"What was that?" Christine asked him with alarm.

"The ship is sailing."

Oh, the way her blue eyes lit up. "Let's go to the main deck to watch!"

Before he could respond, she had grabbed his hand and pulled him out of their room.

* * *

Christine pushed aside her misgivings about Erik's past, about the room, about the secrets he was still hiding from her. For now, she wanted to focus upon the feel of the ship beneath her feet as the great bulk began to move away from the dock with the help of tugboats. She wanted to gather to the railings with the other passengers and feel the cool breeze on her face.

Erik obediently followed, though she did not miss that he tightened his sinewy fingers around her hand as they walked. They joined the steady stream of other people pressing themselves along the thick balustrades to catch a final glimpse of France from the water.

This early in spring, the sun still set early, and from the back of the ship, they faced the line between water and sky. Brilliant bursts of red and orange lit the clouds. She had lived in the city for so long, it had been years since she had seen such a sunset. The unbridled wind whipped at her hair and clothes, sending tendrils around her face and her skirts tangling around her legs.

Slowly, as the ship began to pick up speed farther from the shore, the country which had been her home for most of her life began to drift away. After a while, the other passengers started to meander again, perhaps heading below deck to begin to dress for dinner. They were soon alone on their section of deck.

She felt Erik's eyes on her, but she kept her own on that stretch of land. He stood next to her, one elbow perched on the railing, body turned toward her.

"I meant to offer you another chance to change your mind," he said, low and rumbling like the ship that vibrated under them.

For a while, she ignored him. Le Havre was now indistinguishable from the rest of the French coastline, and soon, they had passed the wide mouth of the Seine that spilled into the channel. She wondered how long it would take to reach open ocean. The rolling of the ship was gentle so far, but she knew that would change.

Matching his stance, one elbow on the railing, she turned toward him. "Papa brought me to France when I was eight, a few years after my mother died. I do wonder what he would think of me leaving the country he loved so much."

She watched him as he looked across the dark waters of the channel to the strip of shore. The tan leather mask did not catch the light of the fading sun as the porcelain mask used to capture candlelight. She found herself missing his usual façade. How would he react if he knew she had brought the white mask along in her trunk?

"I… cannot presume to know what your father might have thought as I never met the man. But I know what _I_ think." He alighted brown eyes upon her, the irises now a brilliant dark honey-brown. "Here you are, leaving behind everything you know to pursue what you want. I know that I have never been prouder of your strength than I am right now."

"Then," she said, biting back tears, "my only regret is that I have to leave him behind. But I am happy that _you_ are here."

His eyes widened at that. As she watched, one of his hands lifted to tuck a thick strand of her hair behind her ear as the wind whipped it across her cheek. Even though he was wearing gloves, she felt the gentleness of the action. She also did not miss the way his gaze darted to her mouth and back up again.

She had not forgotten what she had promised him once he had her aboard a ship.

One of two kisses, stolen back from her.

He had not removed his hand from where his fingers curled around her ear. "Christine… although this was our bargain, if you tell me no, I will not-"

"I am not going to tell you no," she replied.

Those strong fingers spasmed once, then shifted to cup the back of her head. Turning to face him fully, she let her own hands drift to the front of his cloak, grasping at the fabric slightly to steady her unseaworthy balance. His other hand tucked under her chin and tilted her face upward.

She could not name what she saw within his eyes – love, lust, fear – before he dipped down and pressed his lips to hers.

She remembered the feel of his lips in every minute detail, had spun that moment beneath the opera house over and over in her mind a thousand times. However, she was not prepared for this chaste kiss, his lips dry and held stiffly, the first kiss of a man who had never been asked for one. She quivered from the force of it as he held his lips against hers, careful at first to keep the softer edge of his mouth angled toward her.

And then he shifted his feet to bring them closer, parted his lips, and surged brazenly forward to deepen the angle of their mouths. She clung to him, opening her own lips beneath his onslaught to let him devour her fully, melting under the feel of the full breadth of his mouth – thin lips melding into distended flesh that was all uniquely him. He was rough and clumsy, the mask rasping against her cheek, and they both fought to suck in air through their noses so that the moment could last.

She heard a strange sound and realized it was her own moaning whimper. He drank it down.

Finally, when she thought she could bear no more, he pulled back with one final caressing brush of his skin on hers. They were both panting, and her lips buzzed for more. She pressed her fingertips to them in wonderment.

She was fearful to meet his eyes, but she did anyway: they blazed with open passion, and she was a bit startled to see the sheen that now covered them. Pulling his fingers free from where they had entwined in her hair, he eased her fists from his cloak and kissed her knuckles.

He said nothing, but he did not have to.

Finally, when they had both calmed, he offered his arm, as any other gentleman might. She took it, feeling the tense muscles bunching under her hand. Her thoughts and feelings spun out in a million directions, but one stood out from all the rest.

Erik had promised to protect her during this voyage. But how on earth was _she_ going to protect her heart?


	13. In All Pretense

**I'm not responsible for anything I publish while sick.  
**

* * *

 **Chapter 13: In All Pretense**

He moved with stiff limbs as they walked back to their cabin, the length of his strides longer than she might comfortably consider a stroll, his arm tense under her hand. He had positioned them so that his masked side was toward her, and she understood why. Plenty of passengers still milled about the length of promenade deck and the long corridors between the railing and their stateroom.

She doubted Erik wanted anyone to have time to look closely at his face.

This was not the first time she had wondered what his life must have been like, always having to consider other people's reactions to his appearance. She was beginning to fathom why he had reacted the way he had to her unmasking him. Why, both times, he had _screamed_.

But he no longer had the option of disappearing beneath his beloved opera house. He would have to either decipher how to live among other people… or find another way to continue hiding.

She squeezed his arm, drawing his sharp attention to her. The tension swirled within his stare, and she gave him a slight, comforting smile. "Do you want to go to dinner?"

The firm line of his mouth softened. "Not the best idea on our first day aboard. We should refrain from eating heavy meals until our equilibrium has settled." His eyes flicked over a couple of men they passed in the hallway. He tilted his head at them as they did the same. It was an odd, normal moment for Christine.

"I recommend only clear broth," he continued, "until you are certain your stomach has settled."

"Oh." How little she knew about traveling on a great ship such as this one. "Do you suppose we could order food from the kitchen?"

"I believe we can accomplish much here with a little coin. The stewards are willing to run any kind of errand with compensation."

"Broth it is, then," she agreed, sighing. "I should like a little bread with it, though."

His lips twitched. "We can manage that."

They reached their single cabin and stepped inside. Christine still could not believe she and Erik would share this room for the next nine days. She had barely spent time with him that was not focused on her singing lessons, and she was starting to realize that she had little idea how to behave around him.

But the past days spent in his presence had given her hope that there could be some kind of peaceful… unawkward… relationship between them.

Immediately upon entering, Erik strode to the mirror above the wash basin and tossed a spare towel over it. She made no mention of the action, nor of when he closed the curtain across the small window in the door that led to their private deck. It was now dark outside, but maybe he wanted to block out the morning light.

Pausing, he observed the room. "Which bed would you like?"

Her trunk was on the left side, closer to the door that led outside, so she pointed. "That one will work."

He nodded. "We should unpack our clothes so they do not wrinkle. The steward would handle such a thing for us, but I assumed we did not want him poking around in our belongings."

He was right – she did not. She had no idea how Erik would react to the items she carried inside her trunk. Buried within her underclothes, she had packed his white half-mask and his original copy of _Don Juan Triumphant_.

They both undid their cloaks and hung them on the hooks located near the door. She also pulled off her gloves and set them on the dresser. As he began to open up his own trunk, the same one she had delivered to him with Meg on that day that seemed so long ago, she turned to her own belongings. She laid out her several sets of bodices and skirts, leaving the underclothes inside her trunk. If Erik noticed the glimpses of petticoats and chemises, he gave no indication. She set her two small hats upon the dresser, smiling when he came over and did the same with his own wide-brimmed black hat.

The sight of their hats side-by-side was extraordinarily domestic, and she busied herself with tucking her outer clothes inside a few of the drawers, leaving the rest for him.

Considering for a moment, she retrieved the pistol Nadir Khan had given her, wrapped in Erik's own handkerchief. "I still have this," she told him, and he did not seem surprised to see the ornately adorned weapon.

"And bullets?" he asked.

"In a separate bag."

"Keep it in your trunk, my dear. With any luck, we shall not ever need it."

A knock upon the door sent her scrambling to hide the pistol back within her trunk. As soon as she was finished, Erik strode to the door, opening it to admit the same steward earlier with a tray, upon which were two covered dishes.

"The dinner you requested earlier, monsieur," the steward said, bowing and quickly exiting once Erik had taken it from him. Erik smoothly thanked him and asked that a small loaf of bread be brought up immediately as well.

Erik set the tray upon the desk. "Drink up. Staying hydrated will be most important if you begin to get sick." He uncovered both dishes, revealing two steaming bowls of broth.

Inwardly, Christine scoffed. She had not seen Erik speak with anyone on their way back to the cabin, so he must have made arrangements for this meal earlier, before consulting her. What if she had _wanted_ to eat an actual meal?

When she had been his protégé, he had sought to micromanage every aspect of her life, from what she ate and drank, to how much sleep she got at night, to whether or not she could spend time outside depending upon the weather. She knew his seeking control had been in the name of developing her voice, and at the time, she had not minded when she had thought an angel wanted to help her. Now, she could not help but feel irritated whenever he gave her orders without her consent.

Tonight, she would go along with his plan without complaint. There would be time enough later to stand her ground.

Seeking to humor him, she sat and began to spoon the broth for small sips; she was still chilled from being outside, and admittedly, the warmth and saltiness was just what she needed. Soon, the steward brought her bread, and she rather happily let it soak up the flavor of the broth.

"Satisfactory?" Erik asked. He had been watching her eat, and she self-consciously wiped her mouth with a napkin.

She gestured at the other bowl. "Come find out for yourself."

He hesitated, then set aside the bowties and cravats he had been sorting to join her. Soup was an easier thing for him to eat neatly, she soon discovered.

"Hey, Erik," she said after they had eaten in silence for a while. "I just wanted to say… it is fine with me if you share my name for- for the duration of this trip."

He set down his spoon, gazing down at the leftovers of his broth, listening. "Oh?"

"I-I understand why it's important, and why we should pretend to be husband and wife… for a time." How she forced those words out, she did not know. Her face felt hot, and he had looked up to watch her fight to keep steady. If they were going to pretend to be married, she should at least be able to talk about it! "Anyway, I do not mind."

Straightening his spine, he rested a hand on each of his thighs in a seemingly relaxed posture. "At least there is that."

"W-What?" She did not comprehend the reason for the clipped tone of his voice. "Are you angry with me?"

He blew out a breath. "Not with you." Abruptly, he stood, piling their dishes back upon the tray and taking it in hand. "Sleep will be difficult to come by tonight. It is best you go to bed now."

"Erik." She stared up at him with wide eyes. His mood had changed so quickly. "Where are you-"

"I will give you time to _get in bed_ ," he all but growled at her. "Three times I will knock, Christine, before I enter this room again."

Turning on his heel, he left her alone, his feet making long strides in his haste to exit. Sitting there for a while, she forced her breathing to slow. Her frantic heart began to ease, and she felt less shaky once she got up and began to go through the motions of getting ready for bed. However, she still did not know why he had acted like he had.

But had he not always had the potential for switching moods on her like that? Just moments ago, he had been kissing her with the upmost tenderness; and now he had stomped out of the room as though he was angry.

She took off her shoes and began to unbutton her bodice. Only after she was down to her chemise and corset did she realize what he had done: given her privacy so she could undress for bed.

Not something a true husband would have needed to do.

Her cheeks aflame, she hurried her movements. She changed into a thicker nightgown and kept on her woolen stockings for warmth, knowing the room was likely to grow colder overnight. She washed her face and arms, unpinned her hair and brushed out her curls. Finding her thick wool wrapper, she laid it across the foot of the bed and all but jumped beneath the covers, pulling them to her chin.

Even though it seemed like many minutes had passed, Erik did not return. Christine snuggled into her pillow, feeling the gentle rocking of the ship more now that she was lying down. The events of the long day were weighing her down, and even though she wanted to stay awake until Erik came back, to talk to him, her eyelids soon began to grow heavy. She had slept in so many different kinds of beds in her lifetime, and this one was one of the more comfortable. The sheets were soft, the satin doublet heavy and warm.

She was not sure how long she had been asleep, or maybe she had just begun to drift off, when she heard the three solid knocks upon the door. Caught halfway between waking and sleeping, she barely heard the door open and close. His soft footsteps padded to the middle of the room. She could feel the substantial weight of his gaze upon her.

Determining she was asleep, he sat heavy upon his own bed. She cracked her eyes open enough to peer atop her blanket and see his lanky form across the room. At some point, he must have dimmed the light.

Elbows on his knees, he bent to cradle his head in his hands. The gesture was so disheartening that her heart broke for him. She shut her eyes before he caught her staring, and soon, the ship lulled her back to sleep.

* * *

When she woke again, dim morning light filtered through the curtain, digging beneath her eyelashes. She had a bit of a headache, and so she groaned softly, shifting to dig the pads of her fingers into her temples.

"Seasick?" asked a quiet, rumbling voice.

Remembering where she was, she yanked the blankets back to her throat from where they had fallen around her waist. This nightgown hid most of the details of her body but she still felt exposed. Erik lay stretched across the bed parallel hers, facing the doorway. Her gaze traveled from the shoe-encased feet dangling off the edge of the mattress, up the long, lean legs, trim torso, to the masked face. He was reading a newspaper. Several others lay folded next to him on the bed.

He looked as though he had never undressed, and she doubted he had slept much at all.

When she just stared at him, he lurched upright, nodding his head. "Of course," he murmured. Tucking a newspaper under his arm, he strode to the door that led to the deck. "Some fresh air is much needed."

That persistent blush rose on her cheeks. As soon as he closed the door behind him, she slipped into her woolen wrapper and tucked her feet into a pair of slippers.

A sharp, biting wind helped cool her face as she stepped outside alongside him. Their deck was of modest size – large enough for a table, two reclining chairs, and a bit of space to meander between them. Erik leaned against the wall, tucked away from the prying eyes of other first-class passengers.

However, she was not looking at him then. Before her shone miles of gently rolling waves with white foamy tops. The sky was bright blue and cloudless, and the line of the horizon sharply defined in the distance.

Gasping with delight, and forgetting she was dressed only in her wrapper, Christine rushed to the railing. The wind whipped at her loose hair. She took a deep breath of the salty air, then swung around to grin at Erik.

"Definitely not seasick," she said, and she saw a small smile plucking at his own lips. "I love the ocean, but I have never travelled out in the middle of it before! I woke up with a headache, but I bet the fresh air will help."

He stretched out a hand and she took it, allowing him to lead her back inside the cabin. She wanted nothing more than to spend more time enjoying the breeze and sight of the water, but she supposed she could get dressed first.

"I am glad you are well, my dear," he said softly. "Did you sleep well?"

"I did. What about you?" She looked him up and down. "Did you sleep _at all_?"

He moved to the door, shutting down her line of questioning. "I need little sleep. While you dress, I will find a steward to fetch us breakfast. Three knocks, Christine." And he was gone.

Blowing strands of hair from her face with a huff, she changed into a simple burgundy blouse and skirt that could withstand the exploring she wanted to do today. She had never been on such a large ship before, and there had to be some form of entertainment on board. Maybe she could persuade Erik to take her exploring?

She was working on pinning her hair when he knocked. Quickly, she let the towel fall back down across the mirror, but he waved a dismissive hand.

"By all means, go ahead and pay me no mind." A bit stiffly, he sat at the desk and continued to read one of his newspapers. This one was written in a language she did not recognize. She wondered just how many languages he could understand.

"Erik," she said after a while of nothing but the shuffling of the paper. "Are you… all right?"

"I am." He laid the newspaper down and after glancing to find she had recovered the mirror, turned around while she did the same. Speaking slowly as though carefully choosing his words, he said, "All of this is new to me, Christine. I have not spent this much time among others in close to a decade, and to suddenly be forced into close quarters with you… I only need time to adjust."

Her heart raced within her chest. She felt the same way. Pretending to be husband and wife, sharing this room, it was all terribly awkward for her as well, especially considering how he felt about her. She did not want any of her actions to be misconstrued by him, and she feared hurting him more than anything.

"Let us take things one day at a time," she said, trying to reassure him. "This is not easy for me as well. Erik… I would love to explore the ship with you today."

He frowned at that. "I know you said you are feeling fine, but it can take several days to get properly used to the movement of the sea. Are you positive you could handle such activity?"

"I think so. Really, I feel eager to see the ship."

"Perhaps after the sun goes down, we could go for a walk." He fidgeted in his seat, one of his knees bouncing a few times with nervousness.

She sighed. This was what she had feared – that he would seek to control what he thought she could and could not do. "I can't stay shut inside this room all day, Erik. I would go crazy." Standing, she went to her cloak and pulled it from the hanger, swinging it around to clasp it under her chin.

Erik surged to his feet. "You cannot possibly go trapezing about the ship unaccompanied."

"I can." Her eyes flashed with defiance. She had lived long enough on her own to be able to take care of herself. "You could always come with me."

At that, his eyes widened. One of his hands crept up to lightly touch his flesh-colored mask. She waited for an answer, and when she did not get one, she moved to the door.

His hand latching onto her left one brought her up short. She jerked her head around to see him transfer with shaking fingers the ring from his finger onto hers. The weight of the ring was familiar, as was its golden band and black ovular stone.

"This-" He cleared his throat and tried again. "This is merely for show. You will be safer if you have an outward sign of being married."

Holding up her hand, she stared at the ring – _his_ ring, the same ring he had once forced upon her finger in the moment he had asked her to share her life with him. She swallowed thickly, nodded, and left before any of her feelings were revealed.

* * *

As soon as his angel had vanished, and her footsteps disappeared down the corridor, he collapsed onto the nearby chair. Tearing off his mask, he pressed his palm against the fevered skin. He had worn the rough leather for too long without ceasing, and his skin was hot and enflamed to the touch.

His legs moving spiderlike, his lungs struggling to draw breath, he staggered to the mirror and wrenched off the towel. He forced himself to stare at his face, his ghastly deformed face. A sore on his cheekbone had been rubbed raw.

He needed the reminder of _what_ he truly was: a creature with a past too horrific to be able to give _her_ any kind of future. Lest he begin to believe otherwise.

Finally, he let his eyes flee from his own visage and replaced the towel.

The morning passed without Christine returning to their room. He knew she might eat while she was out, but he paced the room like a caged animal, fearing what might happen to her should she continue to wander about the ship alone. He tried to read, but his mind could not focus on the words. He sat on the deck for a while, but there was nothing to look upon besides water and sky.

When the bell sounded for afternoon tea, and she still did not return, he finally replaced his mask, tugged his hat low upon his face, and went in search of her.

He found her in one of the long sitting rooms that was near the promenade deck and adorned with small tables and plush armchairs. She sat with an older woman with a large plume hat and a girl about her own age.

She was laughing, in a way he had not seen her laugh since the Vicomte had proposed to her on the roof of the Populaire.

Spinning away from the doorway in case she saw him, he leaned against the wall for a brief moment before striding swiftly back to their room. She had found some other passengers to spent time with, and should he had doubted that she could easily make friends? Christine had a way about her that charmed others, just as he had been charmed by her years prior.

He had been spoiled by her presence these past two days. He ached for her to turn that smile toward him again, and a part of him wished that he could bottle it for only himself.

Hours later, she came back to the cabin. The bell had sounded moments earlier, signaling that passengers should start to dress for dinner. She knocked three times, adopting his signal that she was coming in.

"Hi, Erik," she said cheerfully, rushing over to the dresser. "I have met the nicest people, and they have invited me to join them for dinner – Madame Chevalier and her niece Henriette. They are moving to Boston after spending some time in New York first. Madame Chevalier's husband lives there." She paused in the middle of pulling out a dinner gown in dark blue. "I told them I am newly married," she added softly. "I thought that might explain any discomfort between us."

He grunted in answer and made to leave the room so she could change. However, she darted forward and grabbed onto his sleeve.

"Please, will it not be suspicious if we are always knocking on each other's door?" As he watched, her pink tongue darted out to wet her bottom lip. "I only need to change my gown. You… you can just turn your back."

Oh, how he wanted to flee that moment. Her eyes, always so huge within her small face, pleaded with him. So, he answered by turning toward the wall.

He heard her release a breath, and then the rustle of clothing followed. For a moment, a melody spun through his mind, and he tapped the fingers of one hand against the thumb as he waited.

Her voice said, a little less steady, "All done!"

He turned. The graceful curve of her back was facing him. He had seen this gown once before, when she had visited her father's grave and he had attempted one last time to lure her to him before _Don Juan_. It must have needed a bustle; he could see that the back hem had caught on the ribbed contraption, exposing the petticoat underneath.

"Permit me?" he asked and knelt at her feet. She did not protest, so he straightened her overskirt, tugging the hem free and allowing the layers to smooth to the floor.

"Erik, I- thank you." He could feel her eyes upon him as he straightened. "Erik," she said again, "would you come with me? To dinner?"

"No." The answer came easily. He had known she would ask.

"But-"

"Go on," he said gruffly, "before you are late."

He heard the tell-tale rasp of her drawing breath around tears, and then she was out the door once again. Alone once more, he settled onto a chair and waited.

* * *

More than two hours passed before she came back. Admittedly, Christine had lingered with the two French women she had met earlier. Marie and her niece Henriette were full of laughter and eager to get to New York, where Marie's husband waited. Even though she had found it difficult to deter their questions about her and Erik, she had loved their stories about America. She had not wanted to return to the cabin.

She knocked three times, then entered the room. The sun had long since set, throwing the two beds and furnishings into the dim glow of the single sconce on the wall.

Erik lay on his bed, and for a moment, she thought he might be asleep. As she drew closer, she felt the darkness of his eyes upon her.

"I am sorry if I woke you," she said quietly. "Dinner took a lot longer than I thought it might."

"I have not slept," he returned, and she winced at the low growl she heard there.

She stepped further into the room, taking off her gloves as she did so. The ring upon her finger caught on the silk, and she had to give an extra jerk to slide it free. "Dinner was amazing. I had never seen so much food – course after course, even different courses of dessert." This was a bit of a lie; she _had_ seen dinners like these before, at Raoul's home, but she was not about to make the comparison. "I wish you would have been there."

"Did you?"

At the steeliness in his tone, she frowned. "Yes, of course I did, Erik. There were so many questions from Marie and Henriette. And not just them, everyone at the table wanted to know who I was and who you were, and I realized I had few answers to give them. They were just making conversation, but yes, I _wish_ you had been there to help me."

Slowly, he rose to a sitting position, folding himself into a posture that was seemingly casual. She knew better.

"You did not have to go," he said. "That was the choice you made."

She spread her palms. "I know that, but you cannot expect me to stay inside this room for this entire trip, Erik."

"What I _expect_ ," he snarled, "is to do my best to keep my end of this bargain, which is to keep you safe. An ambition, I might add, that is difficult to accomplish if you insist on running about this ship whenever the whim happens."

"I was not alone," she said, drawing herself up indignantly.

"Strangers, still."

"If you would just _meet_ them, they would not be strangers!"

He sprang to his feet, towering over her. She did not back down, despite the lurch in her stomach. "I do not _wish_ to meet them, Christine! We have led very different lives, you and I. You meet someone new and you have the opportunity to get to know them, to see how they might begin to fit into your life. I meet someone and I watch again and again as their curiosity gradually turns to disgust and that disgust turns into fear."

He was not shouting at her, not exactly. These walls were too thin for that, and he would be more careful than to let other passengers hear them. However, his low, hissing voice was even worse.

 _"You try my patience. Make your choice."_

"Truly," he said, "my wife would not be out at all hours without me."

Tears were welling hot behind her eyes. She tossed back her head. " _You_ are the one choosing to stay inside this room. And besides, we are _not married_."

The look on his face was terrible. Her heart pounded within her ears. The tears began to carve their paths down her flushed cheeks.

Finally, he spoke. "As you are so quick to remind me." Brushing past her, he headed for the door.

"W-Where are you going?"

Taking his hat and cloak, he paused with his free hand on the doorknob. "What does it matter?" he whispered.

And he was gone.

Knowing it would not deter him for long, she threw the lock as soon as the door closed. Then, she crumpled upon her bed, folding her arms around her middle and letting the tears flow. She cried her exhaustion from what had already been a long trip; she cried her longing for her father, for Meg, for the life she once had; she cried for a man who had never been allowed a normal life.

And somewhere in the midst of that, as her body shuddered, she cried for the husband she _could_ have had. And anger surfaced, at herself.

Paper and ink had been provided upon the desk. She took up a sheet and blearily, through her waning tears, she began to write.

 _Dearest Raoul_ ,

She dipped the quill, hesitated, then poured it all upon the paper.

 _I fear I have made a mistake in leaving you. When you read this, I will have arrived in America, but I have left my heart in France. I hope, with these words, you might come to forgive me, and in doing so, travel yourself to find me and bring me home…_

In her letter, Christine decanted her misgivings about this voyage, about Erik, about her own feelings. She wrote and wrote until everything was laid out there upon the page in all its ugly reality.

At the finale, she signed it: _Forever your Christine_.

When the letter was finished, she folded it and found Erik's white half-mask buried within her trunk, staring up at her with an accusing black hole of an eye. She pressed the paper into the inside curve of the mask and wrapped both items in one of her older stockings. She pushed the bundle to the very bottom of her trunk, beneath the layers of underclothes, where she could forget about it.

Writing all of that down had helped put into words all of the mixed-up emotions she had carried within her for the past three days. Her heart felt lighter, her head a little clearer. As soon as she could, she would destroy the letter. That part of her life – the Raoul part of her life – was over, and there was no going back.

Truthfully, she did _not_ want to go back.

She was not sure why she did not undress for bed, but she laid on the mattress, waiting for Erik to return. Gradually, the sounds of other passengers faded as they began to sleep. When the decorative clock on the wall showed her that midnight had come and gone, she knew she could wait no longer.

* * *

 _La Roche Constante_ , like many ships of this size, had a piano, a Steinway Model A, to be exact, which was a reputable enough brand. Erik thought he should like to visit Steinway Hall in New York during his time there, which was said to house over one hundred pianos and was the current home of the New York Philharmonic.

 _This_ piano needed a bit of tuning, but Erik had neither the tools nor the will to do such a thing now.

At this hour, few passengers were milling about the corridors. Two men sat in the smoking lounge, but he had little reason to venture in there.

He had found the steward who had helped him thus far, and the man had shown him to this parlor. The piano sat at the far end of the expansive room. The chairs and small tables here were designed for lounging and idle chatter as someone played. Erik paid the man a bit of coin to have him lock one of the entrances to the room and stand by at the other, in case his playing attracted attention.

Erik eased himself upon the piano bench, the angle of his legs a familiar, comforting position. For a moment, he held his fingers spread wide upon the keys, enjoying the _feel_ of the ivory beneath his fingertips again. He missed his own organ terribly, but this would do.

Yes, this would do.

His fingers found a chord and struck it, sending life rushing throughout the space. How he had _longed_ to have music within his life once again. Even a few minutes with this instrument would restore his uneasy soul.

Hesitating no longer, he closed his eyes and began to play an easy but darker tune. He would not play any of his own compositions, could not bear to hear any of his own music just yet, not when _Don Juan_ 's disaster was still so fresh in his memory. But he could find comfort enough within the notes of other composers, and he let his fingers drift from one staccato song to the next, the rumbling melodies mirroring his own internal turmoil.

The door where the steward was stationed cracked open, and he heard a throat clear in interruption. Erik did not cease his playing, but he glanced at the man. Through the panes of glass of the door, he could see Christine standing just beyond.

He gave a nod, and she stepped into the room. At once, he softened the melody spilling from his fingers and changed the tunes to something slower, something that might ease the tension seeping from her small body. He had only caught a glimpse of her face before turning his attention back to the piano; the splotches high upon her cheekbones and nose revealed that she had been crying.

She stepped to his side. Then, to his surprise, she slid upon the piano bench next to him, her skirts bunching around his own leg, their thighs a whisper apart. For a while, she merely watched him as he played, her blue eyes sweeping up and down his form, alighting upon the tap and press of his fingers.

Then, he allowed the final song to drift through the instrument, the final chord fading around them.

Her quiet voice broke the silence. "That was beautiful."

" _You_ are beautiful." The words spilled from between his traitorous lips before he could rescind them.

They both sat there, frozen upon the hard, smooth wood of the bench. He had to say something, had to explain himself.

"Christine, I-"

Fast as lightning, her hand flew to his lips, silencing him with the soft press of her fingertips. "Please, _please,_ let me speak." She hesitated, then continued, "I want to apologize for my behavior today. I know how difficult this is for you, and some part of me just did not… did not _care_."

She shifted upon the bench. Before he knew what was happening, she had taken one of his hands in hers, her fingers now smoothing across his bony knuckles. She stared down at their entwined hands. "Erik, I have spent so much of my life letting other people take care of me. After everything that has happened, I want to find my own feet beneath me." Raising her head, she met his own gaze. "I need to be able to do some things on my own. I will have to… eventually, right?"

If he could but hold her hands in his. Would she let him? He twisted to face her, grasping onto her delicate fingers, bumping up against the ring she wore – _his_ ring. The presence of it mocked him; he knew it was merely for show.

And yet.

She had come here with the intent of being honest with him. He could do less than return that rectitude. He took a deep breath and held onto her soft hands like a lifeline.

"Christine, I love you."

She gave a little gasp, but he pressed onward. "I have for a very long time. I know I have done little to deserve any return of affection from you, and certainly my actions today have only driven you away. You are right – you _do_ need the space to find your own way." He shifted a little, teetering on the edge of… something. "Too long I have been a ghost within your life, so long that somewhere in there I forgot how to be a man."

"Oh, Erik." Reaching up, she cupped his bare cheek. "You are, though. You are."

When he snaked his arms around her waist in a gesture that was most definitely a plea, she replied by looping her arms around his neck and tugging him close. He breathed her in deeply, the scent of her hair, the feel of her slight body curving against his.

For a moment, he believed her.


	14. Interludes

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* * *

 **Chapter 14: Interludes**

Erik held her longer than was perhaps polite, but Christine let him, not pulling away until he began to loosen his arms from around her. Already, she missed the span of his hands at the curve of her waist. When he turned back to the piano, she swiveled her eyes to those nimble digits, eagerly watching them begin again to glide across the keys.

He changed the melody, slowing the pace of his fingers upon the ivories to something much more soothing. Christine felt the press of his fingers as surely as though he was pressing upon her own skin. How she remembered how those strong tendons felt wrapped around her own wrist, the bones digging tightly against hers.

How she wondered how they might feel elsewhere.

Sighing, she leaned against the side of his shoulder, feeling him tense beneath her cheek. The music slowed further and then stilled, the vibrations evaporating from the air around them.

"You are tired," he said quietly.

"A bit," she admitted. "I did not want you to stop."

"We can come again." He seemed to freeze on the edge of indecision, and then he twisted and pressed his lips to the side of her hair. Before she could react, he leapt off the bench, extending a hand to her. He stared down at her as though daring her to say something.

 _Christine, I love you_. Her heart thudded within her chest. How much longer could she play this game with herself?

Instead of taking his hand palm-to-palm, she interlaced his fingers with his, a much more intimate press of hands that sent a thrill through her. They walked like this through the doors to the lounge, where the steward still waited.

Erik nodded his head in the man's direction. "Thank you, Monsieur Laurent."

The younger man's lips twisted in a smile as he gave a small bow. "My pleasure, monsieur, for you and your lady. Shall I see that morning tea arrives a bit later?"

"That would be nice," Christine said, stifling a yawn. Now that she had found Erik and was bringing him back, the long day of exploring the ship was weighing on her.

Laurent bid them both goodnight and hurried off to a nearby staircase, while the two of them made their way to their stateroom. They saw few people in the narrow passageways, and few sounds could be heard in the rows of cabins. Christine knew there was little to do aboard the ship once the sun set and dinner was over – a little card playing, listening to the piano or four-person band, or gossiping.

Once back inside their room, Erik excused himself to the deck while she undressed for bed. She hurriedly slid her dressing gown over her underclothes and slipped on her thick wrapper, which covered her head to foot. Then she tapped on the door to allow Erik back in while she washed up and brushed out her hair. She pretended she did not notice his eyes upon her, and she tried to not appear self-conscious at his attention.

His own routine for preparing for bed was once again brief: a little washing up before reclining against the wall beside his mattress with a book written in English.

She looked him up and down – he was still fully dressed. "Do you even _own_ any nightclothes?"

"Admittedly, I do not," he said, not taking his eyes off his page. "For a man who rarely sleeps, they seemed a waste of funds."

She laughed out loud at that, gaining his full attention. Luckily, she did not seem to have insulted him. Instead, warmth had highlighted the golden tint to his brown eyes. "Even you, monsieur, must rest. I daresay you would do so easier without at least your tailcoat."

"If you insist, mademoiselle." The playfulness in his tone delighted her. He sat up, pulling the thick fabric from his shoulders and shrugging out of his coat. Smoothing the arms, he laid the garment across a chair, and then, to her surprise, also tugged off his bowtie and flicked open the top button of his collar. It was as undressed as she had ever seen him, even in the crypt. She openly stared.

He swung his tall form lengthwise across the mattress, his feet hanging off the end, mimicking the position she had seen him in that morning.

She huffed at him. "You can hardly relax in your shoes."

Immediately, he straightened again and began to untie his shoes. He slipped each off with practiced precision, aligned them next to the bed, and laid down once more.

She hated to ruin their game, but she had one more item she wished to ask of him. "And," she added, now in a whisper, "your mask."

* * *

Nothing had rushed in to fill the silence that followed. Erik laid frozen upon the bed as though he might be able to vanish if he stayed still long enough. His mind had spun through a dozen responses, none of them appropriate for a gentleman, most of them harmful to the woman across the room.

The moments of his life… they always came back to his mask, did they not?

Christine shifted upon her bed, her bare white ankles appearing for a brief moment before the hem of her dressing gown and wrapper fluttered to the floor. She padded across the carpet upon quiet feet and knelt before him.

In a flash, he was upright again, but her hands flew to his knees, pressing him down even as he tried to bolt.

"Erik," she said softly, and he did not dare look at her, not yet. "Wearing that mask every day… it cannot be comfortable."

No, it was not. But he had spent too many days without one, too much time in her presence uncovered, having to angle his face just so to avoid giving her the brunt of it.

Her hand lifted and cupped the rough leather of the mask. He lashed out and grabbed her wrist lest she try to remove it. But she only caressed the shape, traced the outline of the roman nose, and he dared to briefly flit his gaze to her face: she seemed only curious and slightly despondent. Her unbound hair curved around her shoulders like a halo.

When she spoke again, her warm breath fanned the other side of his face. "I understand why you refuse to wear the white mask again, I do. Yet this new mask…" She trailed off, the flash of a white tooth digging into the edge of her bottom lip. "From far away, it seems much like a face might look, but it is not what _I_ would like to see. Wear it if you must, but when we are alone together, I would much rather see _your_ face, Erik."

Alone together. She let those words hang between them. They had spent much time alone since the events of the opera, and for most of that he'd had no mask. As soon as he had found this one – and the full black mask – within his returned trunk, he had clung to their security.

He forced his thick tongue to work. "I can hardly believe _this_ does not matter to you." He did not bother to clarify or gesture what he meant.

"I suppose it once did," she said, contemplative even as he struggled not to despair. She ran her fingertips along the edge of the mask, touching the seam of where leather met flesh. "However, I have seen it enough to recognize the man beneath. And I know enough of masks to know that this type can rub the skin raw. Please, Erik." Her fingers and thumb gripped the mask, and he knew what she was asking, knew her request came from a place of compassion.

And yet.

Still gripping her wrist, he gently pried her fingers free. "Go to bed, Christine," he murmured abruptly.

Her face fell, but she did as he asked. He averted his eyes while she unbuttoned her wrapper and draped it across her mattress, and he waited until she had pulled her blankets to her chin before he moved. Such a simple request: take off the mask. And yet his hands trembled as he untied the straps behind his head.

He felt the air slap against the open sores that had rubbed upon his eyebrow and cheekbone. Some time without the mask would aid him in quickly healing these. He had purposefully left the light on, knew Christine was watching, and now he crossed to reduce the lamp, the mask still in hand. As he settled back into his own bed, he rested the mask next to him, within easy reach.

It was a long time before he chanced a look at the woman across the room. Her eyes glittered in the dim light. She was smiling.

* * *

Despite his discomfort, he did sleep that night. Each time he woke, he expected to find her eyes upon him, but she was always deep within the throws of her own dreamscape.

She moved often in her sleep – something he had not known about her. Sometimes she murmured aloud, never anything he could discern, not even a name. Sometimes he admired how she could sleep in any position, but his favorite was when she stretched out like a feline upon her back, her hair in silky piles around her face, one hand thrown carelessly over her head.

Erik let her sleep well past breakfast, shushing Laurent when he brought a late tea. Soon enough, she began to stir in waking, kicking off her blankets in a huffing effort to free her legs. He caught a flash of pale, bare leg before she became aware enough to tug the blankets back upward, shivering a bit at the sudden snap of cold.

"Good morning," he said, going to the window to let in a bit of sunlight.

"Morning," she said, still foggy with sleep and sitting up. Oh, how he loved that messy spill of brown curls in the morning. He could drink in that sight for eternity – the image of her blinking the sleep from her eyes.

"Tea?"

"Please."

He poured her a cup as she shrugged into her wrapper. "Laurent managed to get you a hot bath scheduled for earlier than your assigned time, if you would like."

She lit up at that, and a smile tugged at his own twisted lips. Soon, she had gathered her change of clothing into her carpetbag and headed just down the hallway to the bathroom. He was reading a newspaper when she returned; they would not get any recent news until they arrived in New York, but there were enough foreign papers to be had on this ship with such a variety of people on board. This one was written in German, and he was pleased with the opportunity to practice the language.

After a while, he noticed she had been sitting and observing him as he read. He lowered the paper and pressed his lips together to withhold a sigh. Honestly, he was not sure why she had not already left to explore more of the ship or meet with her new friends.

"Yes, my dear?"

"Do you ever only read?"

He snapped the newspaper to attention again. "When I have little else to do."

She seemed to consider this, then she went over to her trunk and dug around in the contents, her back blocking his view. He caught sight of an instrument case, long and narrow, that she drew out of her way for a moment before she replaced it inside the trunk. He guessed it must be her father's violin, though he had never seen the instrument itself.

"I saw this and thought of you," she said, thrusting a wrapped parcel into his lap and sitting next to him on the small divan.

Nimbly, he parted the thick wrapping and stared down at the contents. Held together with a cover, the loose sheets of parchment were filled with thin black lines: blank musical sheets. His angel had purchased him paper meant for composing.

She shifted uneasily next to him. "I bought a dip pen and pot of ink as well. It is not much, I realize. The quality is probably not up to your usual standards, but- but I did not have-"

He held up a hand, silencing her with his broad palm against her cheek. Her flesh was warm and soft, flushed with her unwarranted embarrassment, and he allowed his fingertips to dip ever so slightly into the silky curls above the curve of her ear.

"Thank you," he said hoarsely. "I have not written since…"

" _Don Juan._ "

"Yes."

Reaching up, she took his hand from her cheek, giving her fingers a squeeze before kneeling back at her trunk's edge. "I am not sure how you will react, but it _is_ yours, after all." From the bottom of her trunk, she pulled out the large composition, which he instantly recognized.

He took it from her, the heft and smoothness of the parchment at once familiar and foreign, as though he was holding something from a long time ago instead of mere weeks. The full composition of _Don Juan Triumphant_ stared up at him, perched on his knees like it belonged there.

"How did you come by it?" he asked.

"Our lovely managers were about to put it on display. I may have stolen it back." She stared down at her hands, clearly unsure about his response. "I do not know why, but I did not want them to have it. It is _your_ life's work, after all."

"It is _rotten_ ," he snapped.

She flinched at his harsh tone, lips parted in surprise.

"A madman wrote this," he continued heatedly. "I suppose at some moment, early in its development, my opera might have had merit." He thumbed the pages, every stroke of the red pen a lash upon his heart. "However, in those last months before the new year, I twisted it – and myself – into something dark and horrid. The resulting music – if you dare call it that – should never have been showcased upon a stage."

Christine sat still, contemplating what he had said. Then she laid one of her small hands upon his, the delicate bones a sharp contrast with his own. "I saw beauty in some of it. The way Amnita's voice stretched the coloratura range. The heavy layers upon layers of emotion. The complex characters. Your opera in all its strangeness was not afraid."

He snorted at that. "Don Juan himself had to hide in order to seduce Amnita. I believe he was the very definition of _afraid_." Turning his hand under hers, he raised her fingers and pressed a kiss to the smooth skin. "I find I want to destroy it, but I should keep the reminder of how far I can truly fall."

"We all have our faults," she whispered, riveted on their entwined hands. He had not missed how her breath had quickened, the swell of her collar pressing against the top of her corset in time with her nervous tension.

"Yes, my dear, but not everyone's faults result in the death of an innocent man." He gripped her fingers, perhaps too hard, but she did not draw back.

"What happened that night?" she asked softly. "Erik?"

He had not wanted to tell her the truth of why he had killed Piangi. As his own rage had faded, as her innocent kisses had brought him back to himself, he had realized everything _he_ had done had made him more of a monster than anyone else who had tried to force him into that role.

 _"It is a difficult thing,"_ Daroga had once told him, back in Mazandaran, _"to come back from murder."_

But Erik had come back, tugged back from the brink of madness by the woman sitting in front of him, her concerned blue eyes shimmering in the morning light.

"I lost control," he said. "I had not intended to kill the man, but in my haste to replace him on the stage… I have suffered greatly in my life, Christine, but that was the first time I realized perhaps I deserved it."

She twisted on the divan so she faced him more fully. Her free hand gripped the lapel of his tailcoat, crushing the fabric. "Piangi was a good man, Erik."

Her gaze swept over his face, his bare cheek, his mask, his wig, taking in his entire visage. He trembled beneath the weight of her judgement. When she tugged her hand free of his, he was left to clutch at his own thigh. The warmth of the press of those fingers as they slipped beneath his cravat and dove between buttons to seek his cold skin took his breath away. She was steady with her intentions, and when mere fingers did not seem like enough, she swiftly undid a button and dove a full hand inside his shirt.

Her palm, supple and warm against the left side of his chest, caused him to gasp aloud.

" _Your_ heart is the one that still beats," she said, close enough to kiss, close enough to break him into a million pieces if she wished. In that moment, he would have allowed her anything. "I feel it, fast and strong." Tears finally leaked from the corners of her eyes, thinly carving down both of her cheeks. He knew those tears were not for him. "You have the rest of your life to _do better_."

Do better.

He could _do better_ , for her, because she believed that he could be someone other than the Phantom, the ghost, who had terrorized everyone who had stood against him… including her. As his heart pounded beneath her palm, he knew with every certainty how he wished this trip would end. With her by his side, he could do anything.

He glided her hand free of his shirt, pressed his deformed lips to her fingertips, her knuckles, the middle of her palm heated by his skin, the bones of her wrist that he had often grabbed so roughly, feeling her own fluttering heartbeat. His body thrummed for her, his senses taking in her quick breaths, her smooth skin, the faint scent of her perfume. Could he dare to atone enough to have her?

"This- _this_ I will do." He pressed the words of his promise into her wrist.

Do better. He would spend the rest of his life trying to do so.

* * *

"Will your new companions not miss you?" he had asked, when Christine said she would not be venturing out for luncheon that day.

"I will send them a note," she replied. "I thought maybe I would see them for afternoon tea instead, and spend some time here in the room."

 _With you_ , she thought but did not say. After the moment that had happened between them earlier, Christine was not prepared to open anymore doors. Her own boldness had terrified her. She could still feel the lingering tingle of his lips upon her wrist; the contrast of thin, firm skin with the roughness of stretched, thicker malformation had thrilled her. When she closed her eyes, she remembered how those lips had felt upon her own.

Staying in the room today was perhaps a risky move, but she had _wanted_ to spend more time with him, even if they were currently silently reading their own books. Too seldom had they shared regular, daily life with each other.

After an hour of reading, she paused to rub at her tired eyes. She heard Erik snap his own book shut and set it aside.

"Might you show me what is inside that instrument case of yours, my dear?"

"Oh! Gladly." She guessed he had seen it when she had been searching for his set of writing tools. She quickly fetched it and handed the long, sleek box to him.

He flipped the latches, and his dark eyes widened when he saw the violin inside. "A Mittenwald."

"Yes," she said fondly. "Papa bought it when he sold our house in Sweden. It cost nearly as much. We started traveling soon after Mama died."

With a gentle touch, he lifted the violin, turning the sleek body this way and that so he could admire the golden-orange varnish and large scroll at the top. The strings were only slightly used as Papa had bought them only a few months before his death. Christine suppressed a shudder at the way Erik thumbed them, testing the sound with a practiced ear.

"Almost perfectly in tune," he murmured. "Sycamore maple?"

"The back. The top is spruce."

"You have done an excellent job in the upkeep. He taught you well."

She smiled at the praise. "I can at least do that. I admit I have no skill with the violin. My fingers could never manage it."

"Ah, but your voice more than makes up for the lack." Musingly, he plucked at the strings, forming a few chords. "Such a warm sound. Large and well-balanced."

"Sounds like Papa. He often received those same compliments. His violin was always as warm as he was." She sounded wistful, she knew, but at least now she could speak of him without weeping.

Erik pulled the bow from the case. "Alas, no horsehair, but I expected as much. The wood here is in perfect condition as well." He caressed the strings one more time before placing the pieces tenderly back inside the case. "Thank you for letting me see it."

"Of course," she said. "I do not mind. Do you play?"

She was hopeful, and when he nodded, she was even more saddened by the fact that the horsehair had deteriorated years ago. If Erik could play a violin half as well as he could the piano… she would love to hear her father's sound once again.

He set the case aside and stood, stretching his popping joints. "Shall we practice your English? If you are to live in America, you will need to be able to communicate with the locals."

"Oh, yes, please!" She only knew a few basics. She found the translation book she had bought, wanting to learn to read it as well, and they spent the next hour practicing her conversational language.

All too soon, the bell for afternoon tea sounded. Christine frowned, a bit disappointed at having to leave, but she _had_ promised Marie and Henriette that she would join them. Rising to fetch her gloves and pin her hat, she was confused when Erik also rose and set his own hat atop his head.

"Going somewhere while I am away?" she asked.

"Actually, I thought I might join you."

She could not help it; her mouth split in a wide grin. "You are? That would be fabulous, Erik, truly!"

The corner of his mouth tilted upward. "I cannot promise how long I might stay, and I do not… relish being among so many other passengers."

She heard the unspoken truth behind his words: he was going to try _for her_. A surge of something hit her, straightening her spine and warming her belly. Tucking her arm around his elbow, she grinned at him. "Shall we go?"


	15. The Melodies We Spin Together

**As warning, this chapter skirts the line between T and M. This fic will most definitely turn to M by the end.**

* * *

 **Chapter 15: The Melodies We Spin Together**

Erik had spent little time among the men and women of society, but he had spied upon them enough to know how to behave. Their mannerisms and bland way of banter were easy enough to mimic.

Still, two weeks ago, he would never have found himself in this very predicament: sharing a table with two women and his Christine as they divided a pot of tea. Even without sugar, the tea was too sweet, and he waved a hand at the mini sandwiches and pastries, having little appetite for either.

He did notice the way Christine's lips tilted upward when he took a sip of the tea, and so he savored the single cup through this ordeal, just to please her.

The company could have been worse. Madame Marie Chevalier and her niece Mademoiselle Henriette Castagnet were pleasant enough people, although Erik could never stomach small talk. As soon as he and Christine had arrived in the section of deck set up with tables and chairs, Madame Marie had practically jumped upon him.

"Oh, Chrissy, _ma chère_!" she exclaimed, blonde hair piled impressively high atop her head. "Is _this_ the man you have married?" She stood, offering her hand, which Erik took with the lightest of fingers and bent slightly over. "I can see why you refused to join us this morning. If my husband was such a tall, easy sight on the eyes, I would stay indoors all day."

Christine's cheeks turned the most delicious shade of pink, and Erik changed his opinion of Madame Marie immediately. If this older woman could cause his Christine to blush like this, he would happily spend tea with her for such a sight.

" _Tante_!" Henriette said, fanning her face with a hand. "Stop it before you run him off."

Madame Marie and her niece were pleasant enough individuals. Erik could see how Christine had taken up with the pair so quickly. They had an easy way of talking with which Christine effortlessly fell in line, and when they spoke to you, they held little back. Unlike other upper class Erik had encountered, and the multitudes he had observed behind the walls of the opera, these two women would speak their minds to your face.

At some point, Christine must have told them about the mask he wore. While the eyes of both women had lingered upon it during the first few minutes, they made no mention of his appearance.

"So, you are a merchant, Monsieur Daaé?" Madame Marie asked casually, passing round various plates of sweet treats. "Our lovely Christine here knew little about what you do." She batted her eyes at Christine and nudged her in a friendly way. "Oh, to be newlyweds!"

"I am indeed a merchant," Erik said. "I hope to expand to New York once we are settled."

"Don't we all? My husband, unfortunately, insists we move back to Boston as soon as possible."

Henriette sighed. "And I with you. Unless I manage to snag a husband for myself before then." She eyed Erik. "I don't suppose _you_ know of any available bachelors, do you, monsieur?"

Of course, he supposed he himself truly was, however much his heart belonged to Christine. "Alas, madame," he said smoothly. "I have few friends and even fewer I would recommend."

Madame Marie threw back her head and laughed. Then she peered over Christine's shoulder. "Oh, look who is finally alive. I was beginning to wonder."

A rather short man was walking toward their table, his gait unsteady and his thick mustache twitching with irritation. He sauntered over and leaned an elbow on the back of Christine's chair – a move which sent Erik to the balls of his feet.

The man brought out a handkerchief and wiped his sweaty face. He stank of cheap brandy. "If I ever sail on a ship again, maybe it be permanently back to France."

"Poor _oncle_ ," Henriette said. "Were you seasick all this time?"

Ignoring her, the man pulled up a chair next to Christine's side, jabbing a thumb at her. "Taking in strays again, Marie?"

The woman scoffed at him, then turned to Christine and Erik. "Never mind him. This is my brother-in-law, Leon Bellaguet. Leon, this is Monsieur Erik Daaé and his wife, Christine."

"Charmed," the man drawled, not offering a hand. Not that Erik would have accepted it. He took a long look at Erik with beady, bloodshot eyes. "What's wrong with your face?"

"Leon!" Marie said, aghast. "Pardon us, monsieur, but Leon seems to have forgotten his manners in Paris."

Erik raised a hand. He had been prepared for this. "An accident when I was young." He tapped the leather to indicate it was not his own skin. "I wear a mask to protect the worst of it."

Under the table, he felt Christine's hand seek out his thigh. He appreciated the gesture though he had dealt with far worse than a half-drunk Frenchman.

"Nice to meet you, Monsieur Bellaguet," Christine said, ever so kind. "What brings you to America?"

"Business," Leon sneered. "Or rather, the lack of business. Not a topic I would fill your pretty little head with. What I hope to do is marry off Henriette and make a business deal while I do so." He grabbed a pastry and shoved it into his mouth.

"Should you do that with your stomach?" Marie said, frowning her disgust.

He only shrugged and grinned around his mouthful. "Is there anything to drink around here?" Tipping back in his chair, he snapped his fingers for a waiter.

Erik leaned in close to Christine. "May we go?"

She nodded, setting down her teacup. "Madame Marie, Henriette, I think we will be moving on now."

"Christine, don't go," Henriette said, pouting. "Is Uncle Leon putting you off your appetite? You get used to it."

Leon scowled at that.

Christine gave a sweet smile. "I did not sleep well and would like a nap." _Not a no_.

Madame Marie looked at them both. "At least join us for dinner. They're promising duck tonight. Monsieur, Christine tells me you love the opera. You have to come and tell me your thoughts."

Erik hesitated. Leon was too prying – he could already tell that the shrewd man was the type too used to getting his way. The more questions Erik was asked, the more he would have to invent a past life. He inclined his head stiffly. "I have other plans tonight, but would you be appeased if I joined tomorrow?"

Marie grinned. "I would indeed."

He bent over the hands of both women – Marie held on a touch too long – and pulled Christine's chair back so she could stand.

"Won't _you_ at least join us?" Henriette asked Christine, pouting.

Christine glanced at Erik as though seeking permission. She did not need it. Had she not made it clear enough that she wanted to do what she liked? Still, Erik took her elbow. "Go on."

Her smile warmed him. "I will see you tonight then."

"Yes, will," Leon interjected, wagging his crumble-coated fingers at her.

Gripping her elbow perhaps a bit too hard, Erik nudged Christine from the room. Once they were out of sight of the others, she gently pried his fingers loose and looped her arm over his elbow in a position that mirrored other couples strolling through the ship. They made their way to their room, and before he could make a statement, Christine blew out an annoyed puff of breath.

"That man was something else!"

His lips twisted in amusement. "Yes, he was, but try not to let him under your skin, my dear. He is nothing."

"But the way he came right out and talked about your mask." She stomped angrily to the sink to wash her hands. "I wanted to tell him what was truly on my mind."

He went to her, hesitating a moment before placing his hands upon her shoulders. She instantly calmed, the line of her back relaxing. "It is no matter. Best not to draw attention to ourselves, yes?"

She sighed. "Yes."

Using her shoulders, he slowly turned her around, took a towel, and dried her hands. Then he took them and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. "Even so, his comments about needing money and his apparent lying are enough to raise my suspicions. He was most definitely _not_ seasick these past few days. Rest and enjoy your dinner, my dear. I am going to check on our funds in the vault and take surveillance of our new acquaintance's movements."

"Just be careful," she said, squeezing his hand.

"Always."

Donning his hat and cloak, he slipped back out of the room.

For the next few hours, Erik mapped out the ship's interior, learning the passageways used by both passengers and crew alike. After tea, Leon spent most of his time losing a few coins at cards and sulking with a bottle of brandy. The man seemed mostly harmless. Erik visited the vault, in which passengers could keep their gold, if wanted, and found his crate of coins undisturbed.

Satisfied that everything was secure, he considered seeing if Christine had yet returned from dinner. However, after seeing the four-piece band playing in one of the lounge rooms, he had another idea.

He went in search of Laurent.

* * *

Christine closed the door behind her and sat in the chair near the desk. What should have been a pleasant dinner turned into a circus act of diverting all of Leon's questions. The man truly had little tact for dinner conversation, and despite Madame Marie's stepping in, he still insisted on prodding Christine for information whenever he had the chance.

Their stateroom was empty. On her pillow, where she would not miss it, was a small note written in Erik's characteristic slopping penmanship.

 _Dearest Christine,_

 _Be ready at 10 o'clock. Dress for a warm room._

 _E_

A thrill ran up her spine. She had no idea what Erik had planned, but that explained why he had been gone all evening.

Changing out of her thicker dress that had been more appropriate for the cool spring air, she put on one of her breezier bodices with shorter sleeves and a wide, square neckline. The blush rose-colored satin required only a small bustle and had little train for easier walking. She unpinned some of her spiral curls, letting them hang over one shoulder.

At one point, she paused, considering how she was primping and preening for whatever was to come. Only a few weeks ago, she trembled in terror at the thought of being alone with Erik, who she knew as little more than the Phantom. Now, she checked her appearance in the mirror once again, pacing the floor to try to calm the little flutter of excitement in her belly.

Finally, at precisely ten o'clock, a knock sounded on the door – not Erik. It was the steward Laurent.

"Madame," he said, inclining his head. "Monsieur Daaé asks that you come with me. He thought you might feel safer if I said the word _sing_."

Her breath caught in her throat. She nodded and followed him as he began to lead her toward one of the staircases. It was not quite late enough for the corridors to be empty, but they began to meet more staff than passengers the lower they ventured into the ship's many levels. The hallways down here became plainer, not adorned with ornate wallpaper or plush carpets.

The air grew warmer too. When Christine wiped the dampness from her forehead, Laurent smiled at her.

"The boilers," he explained. "Huge furnaces drive this ship. They keep things toasty in steerage. The cargo hold is less insulated from the ocean depths, so the temperature should be less oppressive than here."

They continued to make their way, turning this way and that, down various corridors and staircases. Every once in a while, Laurent had to open a large ovular door, swinging the heavy bulk open enough for both of them to slide through.

"Almost there," he assured her.

She gave a little laugh. "I hope he has tipped you well for this."

Laurent's eyes crinkled at the corners. "He has. I might even stay in America if I can find a job in a restaurant there. I speak enough English, and the Americans like the accent." They stopped outside a heavy door, upon which he knocked twice. "Here we are. I can promise a few hours before anyone bothers you."

"Thank you, Laurent."

He swung the door open for her, revealing a large chamber filled with various kinds of packages and traveling containers – trunks, crates, even a couple of horse carriages, most of them wrapped in netting and ropes to keep them from shifting in the belly of the ship. Christine stepped inside and the door closed behind her with an echoing thud.

"Erik?" she called into the spacious stowage space. Her voice did not bounce off the white metal walls as much as she thought it might.

For a moment, she heard nothing. Then, from somewhere deep in the cargo hold, the cry of a violin answered her. At first, a single note, which caused her heart to constrict with longing. Then, she heard the familiar warble of fingertips along the strings, and a song rose up, stretching through the space and washing over her with its warmth.

She followed the melody, seeking it out like a bee to a flower. Finally, she found him. He stood amidst the stacks of roped crates, his black-encased form tall and wiry, his outward appearance as always impeccable. His wig was neatly combed, his chin tucked on the rest of the violin case. His lithe fingers danced upon the strings, and he held the bow with such precision and careful, delicate touch.

His eyes were closed, but he opened them when she approached, watching her with piercing, studious dark irises that glimmered in the gaslights. The dim light threw shadows about the tall line of his body. At one time, Christine might have trembled in fear at the sight of his imposing presence. Now, she trembled for an entirely different reason.

His eyes slid closed again, but not before the side of his mouth curved upward at the sight of her. She sat on a nearby crate and let the music wash over her. The sound of her father's violin melded with the melody this man created. Entwined, it was one of the most beautiful sounds she had ever heard.

She did not realize she was crying until his last note faded around them. He tucked both the top scroll of the violin and the bow into one of his broad hands, reaching out with the other to dab at her cheeks with a handkerchief.

"I am forever causing your tears," he said softly, "in one compacity or another."

She shook her head, using his handkerchief to blow her nose. "I have not heard Papa's violin play since he died. You… you bring him to life again for me."

"This instrument is magnificent." He lifted the violin, studying the golden, carved surface. "Your father must have spun entire mountains with it."

"Oh, he did. His music comforted me when nothing else might. I guess I lost that after his illness." She raised her lashes, meeting his intent gaze. "Until I met you."

Straightening, Erik repositioned the violin and sliced a new song across its strings, one low and soothing. One she recognized. But she had first heard it not from the violin… but from Erik's own voice.

Her eyes widened. "You sang me that song-"

"In your dressing room," he finished. "I admit, it is not much of anything. A trifle of a verse, nothing more. But I could not suffer to hear your cries any longer, and I wanted to halt them in any way I could."

She studied her hands. "You did so. I never forget it."

The memories of that first night washed so clearly through her mind, even after these years had passed. After a few weeks in the ballet chorus, she had been struggling to learn the blocking so she could join them on stage. She had fallen apart once alone in her dressing room, at least until a disembodied voice had risen seemingly from the very air. She knew now that Erik had tried to comfort her. His angelic voice had been unlike anything she had ever heard before, and she had begged him to continue. The next night, he had.

She dropped her voice to a whisper, almost afraid to speak the words. "It was easy to believe you were an angel, then, with a voice such as yours."

He shifted upon his feet before her. "I should never have-"

"I have made peace with those years," she cut him off, looking up, eyes slightly wet. "I know why you did it. And considering where I have ended up now, I do not regret those early moments."

For a long time, he stared at a spot to the side, lost in thought. Then, with his usual swiftness, he had placed the violin in its case and hastened to her side. "Do you believe, my dearest, that things… between us… might have turned out differently had I not-" he pushed the words out with great effort. "Had I come to you first as a man?"

Oh, it had cost him much to ask, had it not? He stood there stiffly, hands two fists at his sides. Her face softened at the sight. "I do not know," she answered honestly.

And truly, she did not. In those early moments, he had been so rough, so different than he was now. He had been unused to treating anyone with civility, barely able to have a conversation with her that did not revolve around music. But in her heart, she knew – if he continued down this path of redemption, she might have no choice but to follow.

Worried he might flee, she stepped forward and cupped his bare cheek. "Is that all you dragged me out here for? In the belly of this ship? Would you play some more?"

"I would," he said, taking her hand and squeezing her fingers. "However, I thought we might use the gift of these thick walls to our advantage. You have an audition soon, do you not?"

A singing lesson! She had not considered such a thing, but now she grinned. "I do! Could we practice here?" She indicated the cargo space. "I would love to, Erik."

"Indeed, we can." Almost a transformative gesture, he tugged on the front of his tailcoat, straightening the fabric with a snap. "A longer warm up, I believe, followed by an aria you know well."

She nodded. Using the violin, he struck a note, and she matched it with her voice. They played off each other for a while like so, Christine following on the heels of the violin, chasing the sounds with her own instrument. Throughout, Erik would pause, using familiar movements of his hands to correct her stance, raise her chin, pull back her shoulders. Never once did he touch her, the guidance a mirror of their prior lessons, and she found herself waiting for a mere dusting of one of his fingertips.

After she had run through a series of scales, he had abruptly laid the violin aside. "A moment," he murmured, stepping around to behind her. She felt his hands low upon her waist. "May I?" he asked, pausing.

She did not know what he wanted, but even so, she said yes. He tugged at the hem of her bodice and glided a hand underneath the stiff fabric. More tugging, and she felt her corset loosen slightly as he untied the bottom strings.

"A deep breath, my dear," he said.

She did as he asked, feeling her diaphragm able to expand easier now. When she filled her lungs, he swiftly retied the strings, securing her corset. They ran back through the scales, her ability to hold a note more evident than before, and soon, she was flying through her first aria as though she had never stopped singing.

The man had put his hand under her bodice, touched her corset, and she had never once thought to push him away due to propriety. She felt heady with the knowledge that such a thing had occurred. Her voice, thick with Italian, rose around them, her arms outstretched as she sang a lover's lament for her beloved, a common enough thread among opera but one that resonated more authentically for her tonight.

He made little comment on her singing, no gestures to correct her body, no pacing the floor as though searching for the next direction in which to mold her voice. Instead, he leaned back against a crate, arms folded upon one another, eyes shut tight in concentration.

When she had finished, he dashed to the violin case, where he retrieved a quill and paper. He wrote furiously, the pen making quick scratches upon the page. She watched in fascination.

"My apologies," he said at length, tucking the materials away. "I found… inspiration."

"Not at all," she said, flushed from the gratifying attention. "I am glad to see you composing again."

"It is not much, but the movement of my hand soothes me, at least." He came to stand before her, clasping one of her hands with a new boldness. This, this was now familiar and safe – the entwining of their fingers, the touch of palm to palm. "The beauty of your voice has faded little in the time since our last lesson. This manager would be a fool not to hire you at first listen."

She gave a little laugh, which covered up the words that had risen within her head: _Your love of me makes you biased._ She had a suspicion that this might be true, but as strict as he was, she thought he would be able to put personal feelings aside.

"Would you play for me again?" she asked, exceedingly hopeful.

"Of course." He picked up the violin and bow, checking both the strings and horsehair before starting to maneuver them into place.

She came over to him, touching the bow and seeing the thick white strands that were strung end to end. "Wherever did you find this?"

He chuckled, the sound thrilling her. "This ship has a hired band, small but with two men who play the violin. They were willing to part with one of their reserves for some coin."

"You always find a way, don't you?" she said wistfully. "Papa had the same tenacity. He was always able to figure out how to keep his violin going, even when we had little money. I wish I could have a small amount of his talent with creating music. You and he have such a way with notes, in the way you can spin them out of nothing."

He stroked the long column of her throat, the touch barely a caress. "Do not trade away what you have, my dear. Anyone can make notes from nothing. Here." He pressed the violin and bow into her hands. "Show me how to hold it."

This at least she knew how. Placing the violin on her shoulder, she tucked her chin upon the rest and held the spiral in her palm. She lifted the bow and sent one single note careening into the cargo hold.

"That is the length of my ability," she said, huffing. "My fingers could never toughen up to the strands."

"Ah, they can hurt if you do not have the callouses." He stepped behind her, and she was about to ask him what he was doing when he pressed against her back, her head tucking easily under his chin.

"Erik-"

"Hold the bow, Christine." One of his large hands came around to her left, and she watched, rapt, as his long white fingers arranged themselves across the strings. His other hand supported her other elbow, tilting it just so to adjust her position. His fingers slid on the strings and pressed a chord.

"Play."

She obliged, frozen to do anything but what he commanded. The horsehair of the bow sliced across the strings, his hand guiding her elbow so that she brought the bow up, over, and across the entire length. As she brought the bow back down again, his fingers shifted, changing the notes as they went. He bent down, adjusting his position, curving around her.

"Again," he murmured, mouth close to her right ear, the unmasked portion of his face warm against her cheek.

She did, and they continued – Erik's fingers shaping the range of the notes while Christine's movements with the bow called them forth from the violin. Together, they formed something she would have called music. In the notes alone, there was beauty.

However, soon her attention shifted more to the press of his body along her back than moving the bow across the strings. Although he loomed over her, the width of his chest far broader than her own, his shoulder arching to each side of hers, her heart pounded from something much different from fear.

She faltered, the horsehair screeching along the strings. His answering chuckle rose up, rumbling into her ear, his breath hot across the side of her neck. Tenderly, he cupped her hand with his own, guiding the bow, his chest more monumental against her back as he leaned closer to take surer command of the music. She sucked in a sharp breath and forced herself to focus on the movement of his hands just before her gaze, his lithe fingers vibrating with each note. Both of their heartbeats beat faster, his pounding against her shoulder blade, and his chest heaved against her with every breath.

Finally, when she thought she could take no more, he allowed the song to fade. He let her take control of the bow once again, his hand fluttering up her arm as he straightened. All of her focus transferred to the movement of that hand, the palm now flat against her upper arm. It slid down the length of her side, his fingertips felt even through the many layers she wore, the heavy weight of that hand _everything_.

"Oh, dearest," he rumbled in her ear. "What we can create together…"

He let the sentiment trail off, and she blamed it on the music, on the violin, on her singing, but suddenly, she did not care except what she wanted at that moment. Quickly placing the violin and bow on nearby luggage, she spun in his arms, stood on her tiptoes, and pressed her lips to his.

She was not sure what she expected, but he surged into action, spinning her around to press her against the side of a crate. He followed her, pinning her body with his own, chasing her mouth with firm pressure and slick tongue. She broke away with a gasp, needing air, and his lips sought her neck, pressing hotly down that white column to her collarbone, tracing the length of any exposed skin he could find.

More, more, she wanted more, and he gave it, one hand gripping her hip while the other the other skated along her side and finally, _finally_ cupped her breast through her bodice and corset. Just as quickly, he snatched his hand back, but she grabbed it and guided it back, pressing the back of his hand so fiercely she thought she might bruise him.

Returning to her lips, he grunted a moan upon her mouth. One of his knees pushed between her thighs, and fire and stars assailed her senses. She clung to his neck, her fingernails finding purchase beneath the wig at the edge of his scalp. He pushed against her, his hips digging into her waist, and the crates behind them shifted.

Panting, he skittered back from her. His cheek was flushed, his lips damp and parted as he sucked in deep breaths of air.

"That-that did not count," she stammered, hot and panting. "That was not your second kiss. _I_ did that." She did not want to take that from him when he had insisted so much so before this trip that he be allowed to take those kisses from her.

He dipped his head in agreement. "We… should return. Before Laurent seeks us out."

Easing away from the crates, she placed her father's violin back inside its case, letting Erik take it from her to carry it. The two of them walked back to their shared room, arm in arm like usual. Erik's muscles were tense, his steps carrying a nervous energy to them. Christine worried that he was upset about what had happened in stowage. He had not stopped her advances; he _did_ want her, did he not?

Back in the cabin, they dressed for bed. Like before, Erik stepped out to the deck while she changed into her nightgown, a thin chemise that buttoned down the front and fell to the floor. Then she crawled beneath her covers and waited.

* * *

Erik relished the cooler midnight air, needing the solace of this moment upon the deck to try to clear his senses. He was filled with Christine – her scent clear in his nose, his hands still feeling the shape of her, his lips tingling from her kiss. Her advances had been so sudden, so sweet, that he had lost his mind for a moment. His control had slipped, and while he wanted to know what thoughts she now spun, he also feared them.

He waited an appropriate length of time before returning to the room. Christine lay in bed, the blanket drawn to her chin, her hair fanning her pillow. Quickly, he loosened his tie and shrugged out of his tailcoat. After dimming the lights, he toed off his shoes and stretched out upon his bed.

Her voice rose up across the room. "You are still wearing your mask."

He took a deep breath. "Sometimes we need the protections given to us."

"I hoped I had made myself clear enough on this matter."

To his surprise, she slipped from her bed, her nightdress glowing white among the shadows. Her long brown curls hung around her shoulders and spilled down her back. She knelt at his side and reached for the mask. Before he could stop her, she had pulled it from of his face, replacing the rough leather with the warm impress of her lips. She traced the furrows and dips of his twisted cheek, then pulled back to look at him.

"Can we not have a moment between us?" she whispered, breath upon his bare face. "Stolen as it may be?

"Christine?" He left the question hanging in the air around them, crackling with electricity like a thing alive.

"I want you to do that again… what you did in the storage room." Her cheeks were flushed, but her eyes were bright and determined.

He was helpless to do anything but grasp her arms and pull her onto his bed. Her hands took hold of his shoulders, encouraging him atop her, and he settled his weight upon an elbow just above her head, their legs tangling among her nightdress. She was small and soft beneath him, staring up at his bare face with open acceptance.

He bent down and brushed his lips across hers, a bit hesitant now that his mask was removed. She took control, slanting her mouth to take him fully, seeming to not care that his stretched and misshapen skin was against her own. When she broke away for a moment, he sought her neck, drinking in the taste of her skin and the feel of her fluttering pulse.

"Ah, Erik," she sighed.

He wanted to ask her what this meant. He wanted to ask her _why_ , but her body was arching beneath his, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to touch her while she would let him.

His hand traced the shape of her hip through her nightdress, ghosting along her side until he found the swell of her breast. The sounds coming from her throat encouraged him to palm her fully as his lips explored her neck. The soft, supple globe of flesh fit his palm perfectly. He memorized the heft and give of it before finding the peak with his fingertips. Catching that hard bud between two fingers, he applied an experimental bit of pressure. Her gasp of delight answered him.

"Lovely," he murmured against her neck. "So lovely, so soft, my Christine." She wasn't quite _his_ , was she? But in this moment, he could call her so, taking possession of this small bit of flesh.

He gave her a kiss, then bent down to find the peak of her breast with his lips. His tongue lashed out and dampened the fabric of her nightdress, swirling around that nub. Her hands flew over his face, tracing the edges with loving fingers, as she writhed. Could he… _could he_ bring her upmost pleasure this way? His teeth found purchase, gently tugging, and her back bowed.

He settled his hips against hers, noticing how she tried to open her legs to give him space. Her nightdress caught on her knees, but there was room enough for him to press himself against her here. The pressure made him see stars, but he kept his attention on her and the exquisite noises she was making. His other hand found her other breast, giving it the same attention.

"Erik, I want… I don't know…" Her hips canted against his, seeking friction, and he groaned around that damp circle of fabric between his teeth.

It was all too much – the feel of her body in his hands, her soft cries, the heady scent that drifted from her. If layers of clothing had not separated them, he was not sure what he would have done. He tried to pull back but all too late. When she began to shudder beneath him, her hips jerking uncontrollably, he was lost along with her. For a moment, they clung to each other, unable to do anything else.

As soon as he thought he could ease away without hurting her, he did so, but not before stealing a glance of her slight form stretched out and panting within the final throes of her pleasure in his bed. He stumbled to the deck, needing the cold air hitting his face and ignoring the unpleasant wetness on the front of his pants. He would change as soon as he thought her asleep.

They would reach New York in a matter of days. When the time came for them to part ways, he had no idea how he was going to let her go.


	16. The Dinner

**This chapter was a bit delayed due to the issues with this site. I hope this makes up for it. :) We venture again into M-rated territory.**

* * *

 **Chapter 16: The Dinner**

When Christine awoke, she found herself still in Erik's bed, his blankets pulled to her chin and tucked around her. The scent of him surrounded her – darkness and sandalwood and ink – and she buried down beneath the covers, not wanting to emerge into the chill of morning just yet.

And not wanting to face Erik.

Oh, how quickly he had left her side last night. She had been trembling with the aftershocks of what they had shared moments before. Before she could recover enough to call him back, he had fled to the deck. She could have gotten up and gone to him, but she feared what he might say. Truthfully, she did not know what to say herself.

She had never experienced what she had last night, her body trembling with heat and desire and something that she could not name. For a moment, she had craved _everything_ from him, and it scared her how much she had given of herself over to him. If he had not pulled back, if he had sought what men want from women, she doubted she would have stopped him.

"Good morning."

His voice drifted over to her like a velvet wave. She peeked out from the blanket to see him sitting at the desk. A sheet of his composition paper lay before him.

"Morning," she replied, cracking on the word. She cleared her dry throat and tried again. "Good morning."

She saw the flicker of a smile on his masked face. He went to a tray she had not noticed and poured her a cup of tea, adding cream and sugar as she liked. Sitting up in bed, she tried to keep the blanket over her – a silly move, when she thought about it. It was a little late for such decorum, was it not? She tried to ignore the fact that she was still in _his_ bed.

He handed her the cup, his fingers settling over hers as he steadied the china within her grasp. Then, he sat on the edge of the bed at her feet, while she sipped her hot tea and stared at him wild-eyed.

"Christine…" He paused, leaning elbows upon bony knees. "Last night… We both sought comfort in each other, yes?"

She gulped her tea. "Y-Yes."

He settled dark eyes upon her. "I want you to know that I do not regret what happened, not at all. I hope you share those sentiments, but I understand if you do not."

He sounded like a man who had spent many hours rehearsing what to say to her. Undoubtedly, he _had_. All she could do was give him honesty in return.

Setting the teacup on her raised knees, she made herself meet his searching gaze. "I do not regret it," she said softly. "But Erik… may we keep our distance until we reach New York? I-I need time to think and sort out how I… feel."

His lips thinned, but that was the only sign he gave of his displeasure. His face went carefully blank. "I will continue to defer to your judgement in this," he said a bit icily. Then he blew out a breath and reached a hand toward her. She placed her hand in his, shuddering when he kissed the backs of her knuckles. "Forgive me, dearest one. What are your plans for today?"

She was grateful he had changed the subject. "Actually," she said a bit shyly, "I was hoping for another singing lesson."

At that, he did smile. "I can arrange that with Laurent."

"And practicing my English."

"Yes," he said, in the language, earning a laugh from her. "We can do so all you like."

"And I want to go to dinner with you." To her surprise, he did not immediately scoff at the idea. She pressed onward. "It will be easier to avoid suspicion if we are both there to answer questions, and Monsieur Bellaguet has been positively dreadful."

She knew mentioning Leon would raise Erik's hackles, and she was right – he quickly straightened to his feet and stalked over to the window, staring across the deck to the stretch of never-ending sea.

"I do not like this man," he said. "No good will come from being around him."

Christine set aside her teacup and rose from the bed, no longer caring that she was only in her nightdress, her hair spilling freely down her back. She walked to Erik and placed a hand between his shoulder-blades, feeling his muscles bunched together even through his tailcoat. "We cannot stay shut inside forever. Part of life is meeting people you dislike and _dealing_ with them anyway."

He turned around, and she was overjoyed to see he was more relaxed, his dark eyes soft. He tucked a strand of her hair behind one of her ears, making her shiver. "Always so kind," he murmured.

She grinned up at him. "Papa taught me: kindness first. There is already too much hate in this world to add to it."

"That there is." There was such fondness in his voice, such adoration in his eyes, that she had to look away for a moment. Sensing her discomfort, he moved to the door, giving her space to change into her clothes for the day.

Christine had told him that she needed time to sort out her feelings. However, the truth was that she already knew which way the tide of emotions toward him were turning, and she was absolutely terrified of her growing attachment.

* * *

They spent the day as planned – singing in the cargo hold with Laurent standing watch, practicing Christine's English, and sneaking in a bit of familiar music upon the violin. The hours passed in such a pleasant manner that Erik wondered if he might grow bored, but the more time he spent in Christine's presence, the more he loved her. Even the mundane moments of their time together fascinated him.

The late nights were catching up to his angel, so she spent the afternoon resting while he scribbled across the paper she had bought him. His recent time spent at violin and piano had his inspiration stirred in ways he had not experienced since he had first taken Christine to his home below the opera. He would not dare call this new music some kind of tune that might fit into the beginnings of a new opera, but he would not discount it either.

He had thought _Don Juan Triumphant_ would be his greatest life's work. And yet here he sat, fresh melodies spinning through his mind, his fingers sometimes tapping along his thigh as he worked through the notes. His soul was beginning to stir again. He had to follow the thread or risk going up in flames.

When his Christine woke, he smiled at her grogginess and lopsided, pinned hair. She nodded blearily when he offered to read from one of her novels while she blinked sleep from her eyes.

These were the moments to which he could grow accustomed. It was a deadly thought.

All too soon, the bell sounded for guests to start making their way to dinner. Erik slipped outside to the deck while Christine changed. Out here in the middle of the Atlantic, the waves were choppier and white-tipped, the large swells testing the balance of the ship. He knew such a vessel could handle far worse, and he was pleased with how little it tilted with these breakers. They were halfway through their trip, and while a storm brewed in the far distance, it seemed they would have mostly pleasant weather.

Christine tapped on the window to gain his attention.

"Ready to go?" she asked, smiling up at him. She wore one of the dinner dresses she had purchased for this trip – small sleeves that cut at her shoulders in a v, with matching silk gloves that rose above her elbows. Her bustle was small, the train shorter for easier walking aboard the ship. She would likely be one of the simpler-dressed women tonight, but the deep burgundy complimented her creamy skin, and he was thoroughly entranced.

"Ah, I only need a moment to change my waistcoat and bowtie."

Nodded, she settled on the chair by the desk, picking up her book to read. He shifted from one foot to the next. Until now, she had always turned her back to give him privacy. However, her casual treatment of the situation made him blow out a steadying breath and search in his dresser drawers for the appropriate items. Her eyes flicked to him a few times as he changed from his black accessories to ones of soft ivory, which were more appropriate for dinner.

Soon, they were off to the main dining room.

Madame Marie and Henriette were already there, situated at a regular, white cloth-covered table in the middle of the grand dining room. The arrangement was not one Erik would have chosen; no matter where he sat, his back would be positioned to the rest of the room.

A young man he did not recognize sat across from Henriette. He was introduced as Monsieur Felix Ansel, and he seemed a rather bland type of fellow with an awkward smile and thick yellow hair. Erik relaxed fractionally when Madame Marie winked that Felix and Henriette were close in age; he could trust that Felix's attention would focus on the woman across from him rather than Christine at his elbow.

Erik sat on Christine's left, hoping to screen his mask from the rest of the room, at least enough that he did not garner more than passing attention. Unfortunately, Leon sat directly across from him, at Marie's side, immediately staring openly at Erik.

"You're still alive," he said to Erik, grinning. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd gone overboard."

"You are ever so polite, Leon," Madame Marie said. "We are fortunate to have such pleasant dinner partners. Do try to not run them off."

A waiter came to their table, clearing his throat for their attention. "Captain Santelli states your meal shall be complimentary tonight, with his favorite bottle of champagne gratis. He sends his apologies, Monsieur Daaé, for the mix-up about your two rooms." He set the bottle within a bucket of ice.

Christine tensed next to him, forcing a smile. "How nice of Captain Santelli to remember."

"Two rooms?" Leon drawled, leaning both elbows on the table. "Whatever would a married couple need with two rooms?"

Christine jumped in with a ready explanation. "They mixed up our names when we first boarded and put us in separate rooms. Just imagine!" she added, looking conspiratorially over at the two other women, "if we had to spend this trip apart. Luckily, our wonderful steward Laurent was able to sort the mess out for us."

Erik reached over and grasped her hand, giving it a squeeze.

Henriette gasped with delight. "How lucky you are to have such a marriage, Christine! I hope to one day find what you have."

"I am sure you will," Christine replied.

Leon rolled his eyes. "Oh yes, Madame Daaé is fantastically _lucky_ to have such a marriage. I had such a wife once, but as soon as the money dried up, so did her heart." He took out his own flask and swigged a gulp. "I hope you have plenty of coin to keep happy such a _charming_ woman as this one."

Madame Marie seemed relieved when the waiter returned with menus. "Your champagne, Monsieur Erik, has me craving the salmon with Hollandaise."

"I am pleased to share it," Erik said, and when the waiter came to take their orders, he had the man pour them all a glass. He cared little for champagne with its bothersome bubbles and cloying sweetness, but Christine was delighted with the drink. Her glass was half empty before their first course arrived.

Turtle soup was an easy enough meal, and he carefully spooned the broth between his lips while the women began to chat idly about the goings on of the ship's many passengers. In front of him, Leon fell into silence. Erik did his best to ignore the steady stare of the man. Something still unnerved him about Leon's attention, and he hoped it was merely a curiosity about his mask that would not go away.

Soup gave way to salmon, which was followed by saddle of mutton and jelly, as well as roast turkey and truffles. He was not one to eat such heavy food and rich sauces, and so he picked at the plates in such a way to mimic the act of eating it.

Another round of champagne was poured, and Leon declined in favor of brandy, mumbling that he hated the drink that was meant more for women than for real men. He leaned back in his chair, patting his full belly.

"So, what _do_ you do for a living?" he asked Erik. "Marie mentioned something about merchants." He said this last bit with a sneer in his voice, which Erik pointedly ignored.

"Indeed, I trade goods for a living," Erik replied. "Mostly from the Orient."

"Like what?"

He did not owe this man anything. "Like goods."

"You must make a lot of money trading _goods_ to attract such a pretty wife with that face."

Ah, there was the usual insult he had been awaiting. Christine had trailed off in her conversation with Henriette, focusing on the tension beginning to crackle on her left. Fortuitously, the pastry course arrived: gooseberry soufflé with lemon cream. Despite her love of sweets, Christine was ignoring the plate before her, instead leveling her cold gaze upon Leon.

* * *

Enough was enough. Christine had not decided to make this trip, to come all this way, just to have this simpering fool insult the man she had chosen to be at her side. She had noticed all evening how eyes seemed to alight on Erik – and his flesh-colored half mask – far longer than others in the room. If _she_ saw the extra attention, she knew Erik felt the full weight of it.

"Erik more than makes me happy," she stated, laying her hand atop his. "I would pity your own state of loneliness, Monsieur Bellaguet were it not easy for me to understand why _you_ are without a wife."

Madame Marie choked on her champagne in a move that was half snort, half chuckle. Leon's ears turned a lovely shade of red, the only sign he gave that her words had struck a nerve.

"And besides," she went on, anger pushing out her words in a rush, "Erik is a multitalented man. Not only can he play most any instrument upon which he puts his hands, not only can he sing with the voice of an angel – he can also _create_ the most beautiful songs you have ever heard."

"Can he now?" Leon hissed through clenched teeth.

"Yes, he can," she said, tilting up her chin. "I lived in Paris for a long time and never heard such talent."

"Why, he must have performed for the Opera Populaire itself then!"

Coldness flooding her veins like ice at the name of that place, and Christine knew she had gone too far.

"That is enough," Erik said, squeezing the tips of her fingers in warning. "You flatter me, my dear. Truly, I only dapple in music as a hobby. I have never performed publicly."

Leon took a swig of his brandy, eyes still glaring daggers. "Are you so sure of that? I would not forget a man who wore a mask."

Henriette elbowed him sharply. "Leon, let's enjoy our soufflé, shall we? You are being rude."

He did not pick up his fork, but he nodded. "I beg your forgiveness," he said in a tone that said otherwise.

Christine desperately tried to calm her nerves. Erik still gripped her hand, his bony fingers digging into hers. She was so thoughtless to have run her mouth like that. Of course, this ship could have Parisians on it, and of course they might be familiar with the biggest opera house in all of France. She had skirted with danger, and now she needed to hope that Leon had never heard of what had transpired that night several weeks ago.

Despite that night discussed in detail in all the newspapers. Despite the upper class's penchant for gossip among themselves. Oh God, what had she done?

Giving Erik's hand a squeeze, she dipped her spoon into the fluffy center of her soufflé and ate a bite. She had never tasted something so delicate and wonderful, but she could not enjoy it, not when Erik sat still as stone beside her.

Henriette stared into her empty glass. "Might I have more champagne?"

Leon leapt to his feet. "How about I top everyone off? Clearly, this table needs more to drink!" He took up the champagne bottle and moved around the edge of the table, going first to Erik's glass, which was still mostly full.

Erik picked up his flute. "I have quite enough."

"Nonsense," the other man with a forced grin. "It is your champagne, after all."

Christine bit the inside of her lip to keep from interjecting again. Erik vibrated tension next to her. As she watched, he set his glass down beside his plate for Leon to fill it. The champagne swigged into the already full flute. Then, in a move that was almost comically deliberate, Leon let the edge of the bottle clip the glass, sending the champagne spraying furiously down the front of Erik's clothes, soaking his waistcoat and the white of his shirt that peeked above it.

Erik scooted back to avoid the liquid drenching his pants as well, his chair overturning behind him. At the same moment, Leon's free hand darted out. Christine saw the barest of his fingertips brush the edge of the mask before Erik reacted. In a blur too quick for her to fully follow, Erik seized Leon's wrist and twisted his arm behind his back. In the same motion, he slammed the other man into the table, smashing his face into various plates and utensils with such a large clatter that the dining hall immediately fell into silence. The bottle fell to the floor, where it rolled a few feet with a steady stream of golden champagne.

"Erik!" Christine cried, trying herself to get to her feet, but boxed in by Monsieur Felix to her right and the two men struggling to her left.

Henriette shrieked. Marie, yelling Leon's name, waved down a waiter. Christine finally managed to scoot her chair back enough to rush to Erik's side, grabbing onto his arm. He was immoveable as a mountain, the bare side of his face turned around so she could not see his expression, his neck flushed with rage.

"Erik, let go!"

"Get off me, you freak!" Leon sputtered, spittle flying across the tablecloth.

Anxiously, Christine glanced around them. Two waiters were now headed their way. "Please, Erik, _let go_." She tugged onto his arm as hard as she could, and finally, Erik backed away with a final shove.

He jerked his sleeve free of her, his hands coming up to smooth his mask and wig in a gesture that seemed natural on the outside. Christine knew better. It was a nervous gesture she had seen from him before – a learned response to whenever he thought his disguise might have been knocked askew. Straightening to his full towering height, he snapped his tailcoat straight and angled stiff, quick bows at the women.

"Madame Marie, Mademoiselle Henriette, if you will excuse me." He turned on his heel and all but fled from the room.

"I'll be pressing charges," Leon spat.

Christine leveled a sharp gaze upon him. "We have plenty of witnesses to attest to how you assaulted him first." Across the table, she saw the nods of the others. "Good night."

She thought she would have to make her way back to their room by herself, but she found Erik waiting for her just beyond the main doors to the dining hall, his back pressed to the wall. Wordlessly, he continued onward as soon as he saw her. She had to run to keep up with the long strides of his legs.

She knew better than to speak until the door to their cabin had closed behind them, and even then, he began to pace, his anger still palpable, filling the space with a thick heat that was nearly suffocating. She had seen him like this several times before – when she had first removed his mask, when he had caught her pledge of love to Raoul on the rooftop, when everything had fallen apart during _Don Juan_. In such a volatile mood, she did not know what he might do.

However, she found she did not fear what might happen should he turn that anger upon her.

"Erik," she said gently, approaching him as she tugged off her gloves and tossed them aside.

He let her stop his irrational strides across the room, her palms flat against his chest. His heart beat wildly beneath her hand, and he stared somewhere over her shoulder at nothing. His front was soaked; the whole of the glass had flooded his waistcoat and the shirt underneath.

"Here, let me help. Please?" When he did not reply, did not move away, she let her hands slide upward, pushing his black coat from those broad shoulders, having to stand on tiptoe to ease the thick fabric down his arms. Luckily, the tailcoat was mostly unscathed, and she laid it aside, turning her attention to his waistcoat.

Still, he only stood there. His lack of focus upon anything, including her undressing of him, did concern her. "May I?" she asked. Upon receiving no response, she took it upon herself to undo the buttons of his waistcoat, parting the drenched ivory satin and removing it from his person.

"I will rinse this," she said, averting her eyes and hurrying to the sink. She had never seen him in mere shirtsleeves before. The glimpse she had gotten revealed a thin white shirt slicked to a lean torso, showing the sharp angles of the pale skin beneath. She busied herself with running the waistcoat under cold water, trying to get out as much champagne before it could stain. Once satisfied, she wrung it out and draped it over the edge of the sink.

Erik stood in the middle of the room where she had left him, arms limp at his sides. However, now he stared at her, his golden-brown eyes tumultuously dark. Swallowing her sudden nervousness, she approached him again. The front of his shirt was as saturated with champagne as his waistcoat, and he needed it off before he caught a chill.

Those steely eyes followed her as she came before him. Her fingers trembled only a little as she reached for his bowtie to loosen it.

With rapidity, his hands captured her wrists in a tight vice, his grip just on the edge of discomfort. "What are you doing?" His voice bit at her, laced with hostility.

"Cleaning your clothes," she replied, stumbling only a little over the words. She raised her head up, meeting his stare. "You are all wet, and I only want to help." She could tell from his clenched jaw that he considered rebuffing her, but his fists loosened enough to allow her to undo his bowtie from around his neck, which let her get at the button underneath.

He drew in sharp breaths, his heart still skittering under her hands. Every line in his body showed his stiffness, how he fretted over what had happened in the dining hall. She wanted to soothe him, to show him that none of this mattered to her.

She kept her movements slow and deliberate, and at any moment he could have stopped her. As each button gave way beneath her fingers, she expected him to tighten his hold on her wrists, and yet he did not, letting his fists fall to his sides once more. The wet material of his shirt split across his smooth, toned chest. Her fingertips grazed soft hair just above his navel, and she realized she had reached his britches.

Her face heated. She paused, expecting him to help her, and he did nothing. His fuming eyes dared her to proceed. She did, yanking his shirt loose from his waistband with a sharp tug. In a way that was almost panicked, she had undone the buttons at his cuffs, dragged the entire shirt from his body, and jumped back from him.

He stood before her, unclothed from the waist up. His pale chest heaved with each breath; his jaw worked with unspoken words. He was all lean muscle and white skin. Here and there she caught sight of the silvery marks of scars: curving around his shoulders, slicing across one of his arms, gouging one pointed hip bone.

He was beautiful in his singularity.

"Seen enough, have you?" he hissed.

She jerked her gaze to his. "S-Sorry? I was not… I mean, I did not mean to stare."

"No, go on. Drink your fill, Christine. Perhaps I shall give you the full show? The one he almost gave you?" In one harsh lurch of his hands, he wrenched both mask and wig away and tossed them onto the bed behind him. The violent way he revealed himself made her gasp aloud. "There, Christine! _This_ is what he wanted. Under different circumstances, might you have given him a glimpse of the freak? You did so once, not so long ago, before an audience of two thousand!"

She winced at that, clutching the wet shirt as though that would shield her from his accusations. She fought to keep her own voice calm and level. "I know what I did was terrible to you, but I had little choice, Erik. Once I recognized that it was you with me on that stage, I knew you would not leave alive if I did not act."

He scoffed, stalking before her, looming close only to stumble back when she reached out a hand. "Do you not believe I had a plan?"

"Did you?" She raised her left hand so that he noticed the black-stoned ring upon her finger. "I saw a man so caught up in his actions that he did not see he was about to be shot in the back. I needed to do something that would make you flee quickly. I did what I had to do, Erik. I do not regret it."

He hurled himself close again, giving his head a little shake as though that could wipe her words away. She held still, feeling the heat of his body wash over her.

"You cannot equate my actions with his," she said, a bit stung that Erik had tried. "I have never sought to deliberately hurt you. Only ever with my foolishness have I done so."

He made a desperate noise in the back of his throat. "Over and over again this happens."

She swallowed her own pitying tears. "It will be all right," she whispered.

"It will _never_ be all right!" He swept a hand over himself. "This- _this_ will never be all right!"

Letting the shirt fall to the carpet, Christine cupped his distorted cheek in her palm. He flinched back, but her hand followed him, not allowing him free of her. She feared what might happen if she let him go now. Her other hand drifted to flatten once again over his skittering heart, his skin aflame beneath her touch.

She stepped closer and kissed his sternum. She barely resisted the urge to swipe her tongue along his skin to sample what she would find: a combined taste of cloying champagne and whatever flavors of which _he_ might embolden. Even so, beneath her lips, a groan rumbled forth.

His hands came up to grip her bare upper arms, his face twisted in anguish. "I need you, my dearest. In so many ways, I need you."

She knew. Oh, she had known for such a long time. "Erik-"

He pushed her backwards, and it took her a moment to realize it was his bed and not hers that thumped against the backs of her legs. Suddenly, he was bending down, and his mouth was upon her throat at the juncture of neck and shoulder, his face pressed fully upon her skin, contrasting rough deformity with smooth cheek. His lips worked across her pulse and down to the edge of her collarbone.

He pressed forward, and soon she found herself stretched across the mattress, his large body covering hers in a tangle of too much fabric. Despite herself, she tossed her head back to give him ample room. At some point, he had tugged down the strap of her gown, releasing the breadth of her shoulder to his perusal. He explored with lips and tongue and teeth, sampling the expanse of her skin in a bombardment of sensations. Her own fingers fanned across his scalp, stroking downy-soft strands of hair.

He shifted to free one of her knees and the edge of her skirts. Before she knew what was happening, one of his hands ducked beneath the layers of satin overskirt and stiff crinoline. She felt his hand find purchase on the outside curve of her upper thigh with only her thin drawers to separate them.

"E-Erik."

His distended lips smoothed their way up and down her neck and along her jaw, soothing her as they went. "Let me," he murmured, the feel of his hot breath upon her sensitive throat setting her blood boiling. "Let me, my angel."

His hand moved again, caressing the shape of her thigh through the material. She tried to focus on where that hand traveled, but his mouth worked its distraction along the v of her bodice, pressing wet trailing kisses against the upmost swells of her breasts. His hand slid inward, the heat of it pooling at the apex of where she throbbed.

When one of his cool fingertips skimmed the slit where her drawers parted, _just so_ brushing against her most sensitive skin, her hips bucked. She gripped his hand through her skirts, staring at the ceiling with wide eyes. She should tell him to stop, but she did not. That finger, which had paused, glided once more across her flesh, the path slick. Her fingernails dug into her overskirt atop his hand. His touch felt _good_ , it felt like everything she had desired of him, and she found herself letting her knee fall to the side.

"Beautiful, beautiful," he breathed against her neck. His finger stroked up and down, and she cried out when he found a sensitive pinpoint between her legs that sent her toes curling and her hips jerking under his weight.

She tossed her head back. Was she shaking her head? She could not tell as he worked that finger to and fro, now focusing upon the nub that had coaxed those noises from her. This was wrong, was it not? He was not her husband. She _did not love him._

But oh, he loved her. He pushed those words against her throat even as he pushed his finger inside her. She whimpered, the sound wrenched from deep within her, born on a wave of both fear and longing. His slender digit slid further inside, and her whimper bled into a cry of pain as her eyes clenched shut.

Erik froze, hovering above her. For a moment, their harsh, mirrored breathing filled the narrow space between them. Then she felt him slip his finger free from her and remove his hand from under her petticoats, smoothing down the stiff layers of fabric that pillowed around them. He bent and pressed his bare face into her bodice, his tall form quaking.

Hesitantly, she skirted her hands across the wide expanse of his shoulders, mapping the contrasting smooth skin and papery ridges that could only be more scars.

"No," he moaned, voice muffled. "No, no, no."

Her heart seized within her chest. What could she do now but hold him close to her chest and envelop him within the strength of her own arms? If he had asked, if he had not stopped… For a moment, it was her mind that had panicked. She did not want to give herself over to him in this way, during an instance of desperation between them.

As their frantic heartbeats slowed, she recognized this panic for what it truly was: her soul calling out to his in ways she feared she might not ever be able to separate. She needed time to show him what she was only now beginning to understand about herself: Christine Daaé _wanted_ the man whose shuddering weight pressed upon her now. She wanted him in every way possible.

She only hoped she could find the courage to tell him.


	17. The Past Returns

**My pacing got off track, so no "fire" in this. Even so, onward...**

* * *

 **Chapter 17: the Past Returns**

Gradually, Erik pulled himself together. He focused on the softness of the fingers stroking up and down his back in slow, soothing patterns. The traveling fair's ringling master had been eager with the whip, and Erik carried many harsh reminders of that time spent in a cage. But here, _now_ , his beautiful Christine touched him without revulsion.

When he thought he could lift his head, he did so, frowning at the tears he saw in the corners of her eyes. Leaning his weight more upon his elbow than upon her, he reached up to wipe at those small droplets. To his surprise, she did the same, drying his cheeks with her own light touches.

Needing space, to get away from her soft body and crisp scent, he scooted back to the foot of the bed, grasping her arm to help her also sit up.

"Forgive me, my angel," he said, before she could say anything. "That was… presumptuous of me."

She shook her head. "There is nothing to forgive. Please, Erik, I-I should not have said those things I did at dinner tonight. I do not know what I was thinking, but I put us both in danger. What happened – that was my fault."

" _Never_ ," he hissed with sudden ferocity, spreading both hands upon the bed and leaning toward her. It was a move that seemed deliberate in a way to prevent him from touching her again. "Never believe that anything that befalls me is your fault. Would that I could never become a burden to you, Christine." He straightened, rubbing his palms along his thighs. "I should bathe to rid myself of this champagne on my skin."

When he rose, she was presented with the full view of him once again, bare from the waist up. She wished that he would never again wear the mask and wig. The more she was around his true appearance, the more she could ignore the sparse hair and twisted flesh. Truly, his mangled face had shocked her the first time she had seen it, but if he had not reacted the way he had, she was not sure if her own reaction would have been as extreme. She vowed then to never respond to his appearance with anything but compassion from that moment onward.

"Erik," she said softy as he turned away to pull a black brocade dressing gown from a drawer. Her eyes swept over the broad expanse of his back, his muscles curling and bunching as he bent down. "Those marks on your back… did you get those from the traveling fair?"

Immediately, he stiffened. "Who told you?" he asked gruffly.

"Antoinette," she said. She swung her feet back onto the floor but did not go to him. Madame Giry had told her of how she had met Erik at such a place before he had come to the Populaire. "Please do not be mad at her for doing so. I wanted to know something about you, wanted to try to understand what had happened between us. She told me very little, only that you were held against your will."

He did not turn to face her, but the thick black fabric wrinkled in the fists he clenched. "I was."

She sucked in a breath, taking in the silvery crisscrossing scars that marred his otherwise untarnished skin. "That must have been terrible."

"It was." He glanced at her over his shoulder, a dark brown eye studying her expression before darting away again. "But I had my revenge, however satisfying that was. Buquet was not the first man I have killed."

Christine felt like he was saying such things to frighten her in some way. Here he stood, presenting his back to her, the deformed side of his face turned where she could see it, his head still bare. This was Erik as he was – deliberately fully exposed, awaiting her judgement.

"Did you kill those who did that to your back?" She was amazed at how little her voice wavered.

"Yes."

"Were they the first?"

"No."

A shudder ripped up her spine. She stood, the swish of her skirts the only sound in the room. "Who else?"

He continued, the tone of his voice flat. "Two men who tried to kill me in Persia, the country where I met Daroga." From his pocket, he produced a length of catgut, presenting it at his side so she could see. "Before then, I killed a man who tried to seize me when I ran away from my orphanage. Soon after, I taught myself how to use _this_."

Swallowing hard, Christine stopped behind him. She lifted her hands and let her fingertips settle upon his back for a brief moment before they began to trace the raised surfaces of his scars. His shoulders jerked though he did not pull away. She saw gooseflesh break out across his skin in response.

She could scarcely imagine the kind of life he had led. So much had happened even before he had come to the Populaire, and she now understood why he had sequestered himself underground, building himself an empire based in shadow and mystery. Down there, he could recreate himself how he liked, and as a Ghost, he could control how others saw him.

She felt sick at how she had pressed him to join her in the crowds at dinner. He had stepped out of his realm of security and exposed himself to ridicule, and he had done it _for her_.

Leaning forward, she pressed a kiss to his skin, feeling the papery ridge of a scar beneath her lips.

He spun around, his eyes round and wild. "Christine!"

"Thank you for sharing with me," she said gently. He was just on the edge of panic once again, and all she wanted to do was pacify his fears. "You did not have to, and I appreciate your honesty." She reached up and cupped his twisted cheek; his eyes slid closed as he leaned ever so slightly into her palm. "I-I much prefer you like this rather than the disguise you choose to wear. Would you consider doing without more often? Without all of that, I can see _you_."

He shook his head, but his hand came up to cover hers, pressing her more firmly against his flesh. "What a wonder you are," he breathed.

"And you," she said, tapping his chest, "are sticky. Go on to your bath while I settle in for the night."

* * *

Erik nodded and went to don both wig and mask so he could leave the room. When he was once again resembling any other gentleman, he took up his bag with his clothes and toiletries and headed down the hallway.

The baths aboard the ship were small but private, which was all that he required. The tub supplied a plentiful amount of hot water, and he had room enough to change without dampening his fresh clothing. He soaked for a while after using his favorite aromatic soap, letting the steam seep into his pores and relax his oversensitive senses.

Once more, his Christine astounded him with her grace and ability to see past his moods. He did not let himself fully believe she might be able to one day love him in the all-encompassing way that he loved her, but he had seen esteem and affection in her eyes tonight. For now, that was enough.

Soon, he returned to their room. He heard familiar voices within that were not Christine's, and he opened the door to find Madame Marie and Henriette just inside.

Christine shot to her feet when she saw him. She was dressed for bed, her woolen wrapper buttoned throat to floor, her hair unbound and tumbling down her back. "They came to apologize," she said quickly, as though unsure how he might react.

Madame Marie stepped forward. "We are so sorry, Monsieur Daaé, for my brother-in-law's behavior. He has always been a source of shame for us, but tonight, he went entirely too far."

They were not to blame, but even so, he appreciated the gesture in coming here. "Thank you both."

"Please," Henriette said, wringing her hands. "Won't you join us for lunch tomorrow? Let us make it up to you."

In this, Erik deferred to Christine. He cringed at the idea of divulging himself any further to the crowd aboard this ship, but if his angel wanted a life among other people, he would not prevent her.

Christine shook her head. "Thank you, but I believe I would rather spend the day with my husband tomorrow. Perhaps tea the next morning?"

The women exchanged a few parting words and clasped each other's hands in passing. When they had gone, Christine puffed a breath that seemed… relieved? She turned to him, giving the hint of a smile.

"I will not keep you here," he said, crossing to his bed and sitting upon it. "If you wish to go with them, then go."

"I do not want to, Erik. I meant what I told them." She moved to stand in front of him, their heights now almost equal. Her small hands reached out to trace the edge of his wig, and he bent his head to let her remove it. His own hair was still damp from his bath, and he tried not to shudder when she smoothed the sparse strands. "I like the food, and sometimes I like the company, but I would rather be here… with you."

She did not resist when he let his hands drift to her waist and draw her closer. She wore no corset, and he could feel the womanly shape of her hips through the thick layers she wore. Her arms came around his neck. The two of them folded themselves against each other in an embrace, and for a moment, he buried his nose against her collar, breathing in the scent of her hair.

Enough, this had to be enough. Gently, he drew her back, placing her at arm's length. "Christine, I cannot…" Her sea-blue eyes stared at him, a bit round. "I cannot keep doing this, becoming so physically close to you. I am but a man, my dear, and you… you are _so lovely_."

A glorious blush pinked her cheeks. A flash of white tooth caught his attention as she bit the edge of her plump bottom lip. If she kissed him now, he would be utterly lost. Instead, she nodded and stepped back from the reach of his arms.

"W-Would you read to me until I fall asleep?" she asked.

"Of course."

As he retrieved the book, he noticed that she did not bother waiting for him to turn around before she unbuttoned her wrapper and draped it across the foot of her bed. Her tiny stockinged feet peeked from under her chemise as she climbed into bed. She gazed at him from beneath long eyelashes as he began to read. It did not take long for his dulcet murmur to lull her to sleep.

* * *

True to what she had stated, Christine stayed by his side the next day. They filled their time with books, and music, and singing, and not once did she seem to tire of his presence.

The day after, she left only to take tea with her companions, returning to him with a need to vent about the upper class within which she had tried to immerse herself. After only a few days, she said she was done trying to mingle among them. However, he did remind her that as an opera diva, her presence within the elite would be expected.

"Yes," she stated softly, "but I will always want to return home at the end of it all."

He did not ask her what _home_ might entail, did not want to consider what she meant. They were both traveling to a country neither had ever inhabited, and any "home" would be one they created themselves. Every day they edged toward New York brought him closer to their inevitable separation.

Had they not agreed to go their separate ways, after she earned her spot upon the stage? The music director of the Academy of Music would have no choice but to sign her once he heard her sing. Her vocal lessons had intensified now that he had settled upon _what_ she should sing for her audition. They had tried several different arias, including the difficult Queen of the Night's aria from _The Magic Flute,_ discounted only because Christine's German was still abysmal.

Instead, she would sing selections from Verdi's _Nabucco_ , an Italian opera that would showcase Christine's immense vocal range and purity of tone.

After each lesson, she would settle upon a crate in the cargo hold while he put the violin to his chin and played for her pleasure. He could tell how the music calmed her soul, and he would gladly bring her father's violin to life again for her.

Sometimes, during her singing or his playing, he would have to pause to rush to his composition notes. Always, she would wait patiently until he recorded the music flowing through his veins. And flow it did, with ever-increasing velocity. He knew little about the story behind the songs for as of right now, they lived only in the realm of emotion. There was not even yet a libretto to go along with the strings of melody, but he jotted down snippets of violin and piano entwined together as they formed in his mind.

Thus, three more days passed with such ease that Erik began to feel dread gather in his stomach. If Christine felt any nervousness about the far coastline they were quickly approaching, she gave little sign.

Finally, on the ninth evening of their voyage, he volunteered to join her for a lighter dinner with Marie and Henriette upon one of the outside decks. The fresh air would bring some color to Christine's cheeks, while the openness would help keep him at ease. They were sheltered from the chilly wind by a wall separating this section of deck from the next, which was fortunate given that spring was still only just beginning.

He knew the moment was worth the trouble when Christine gasped upon seeing the sunset beginning to turn shades of orange and pink beyond the bow of the ship.

They approached a round table set for five.

Madame Marie smiled at them. "Felix will be joining us, if that is all right. He and Henriette have been getting along, haven't you, dear?"

Henriette blushed prettily. "Indeed, we have. Oh Christine, I don't want to speak too soon, but he _has_ been so kind and attentive to me this past week."

The two women settled into chairs next to each other, speaking about weddings and dresses. Erik tried to ignore the irony of Christine discussing weddings when she herself had not truly experienced one of her own; the only wedding dress she had ever worn had been one of his own design…

As the courses arrived one by one – only four this time – talk at the table remained light and upon easy topics such as their destination. Erik and Christine could freely admit they had never been to New York, and the trio had plenty of tips about where to stay, what to eat, and how to keep themselves entertained.

"Leon loves to wax on about how horrid New York is," Madame Marie tittered. "However, while the city sometimes lacks its charms, I find plenty to love there."

Henriette snorted. "Uncle hates everywhere he goes, including this ship." She turned to Erik. "We haven't seen him since that embarrassing incident at dinner."

"He has likely spent this entire time in a drunken stupor," Marie said. "I hope he will at least be able to meet us at luggage."

At the end of the meal, they nibbled on fresh berries. The sky continued to darken, now turning hues of purple that stretched for kilometers from the line of the horizon. Erik paid for their meal, itching to head back to the room.

Then, from somewhere above them, a horn sounded, blowing three long, loud bouts. A voice from the bow shouted, "Land ho!"

Land. The cry rose up amongst the other passengers. Feet began to stamp upon the wooden promenade decks at the people hurried to the bow of the ship to look out over the stretch of ocean. As some spied land themselves, the shouted intensified, until the entire ship seemed electric with joy. Christine and the other women hugged, and then she turned her wide grin upon him.

He tried to return it but could not. Land. They had reached America. By tomorrow, he would have to face the true purpose of this trip with Christine: to help her with her audition and, when she had earned her spot back upon the stage, to leave her side forever.

He felt her hand squeeze his. "How much longer do we have?" she asked.

He wished that they had _the rest of their lives_ , but that was not what she was asking. "About two hours from the moment land is spotted, perhaps more as we slow our speed to come to port." He rose and went behind her to pull out her chair so she could do the same. "Come, we must go and pack."

They said goodbye to the two women. Madame Marie handed Christine a card with her Boston address written upon it, along with a promise that Christine would visit as soon as they were settled.

Throngs of passengers were now trying to do the same as them, shifting down to the staterooms to begin the process of packing. Erik knew they would not likely disembark until the sun rose in the morning. Reaching the correct unloading dock would take hours even after they pulled into the harbor.

Christine laid out more sensible traveling clothes than the dark blue dinner gown she wore now. Then she started packing the rest of her clothing as he did the same, piling belongings into each of their trunks. He watched her settle her father's violin into her trunk and layer clothing on top of it for protection. She left out only the novel they were currently reading together in case they had time to wait in the morning.

Neither of them had many possessions, so the process took little time. Afterward, they settled across from each other. Christine smoothed her skirts in a nervous gesture.

"Where will we go when we arrive?" she asked him.

"We will find a suitable hotel," he said, busying himself by organizing the sheets of music he had composed. He hesitated, but wanted to be honest with her. "I have enough funds to last us a while, but we must choose a sensible place until…"

"My audition."

"Yes, and until I find some way to procure more." He knew Christine had little money of her own, but even if – _when_ – they went their own separate ways, he would still support her for as long as she needed him.

The rustle of paper drew his attention to the door. Both of them glanced over to see a folded sheet of parchment upon the floor where someone had just shoved it. Christine's brows drew together in confusion.

"What is it?" she asked as he picked it up.

He unfolded the paper, eyes quickly scanning the scribbled contents.

 _I know who you are, ghost._

 _Come to the aft boat deck. Unarmed._

There was no signature, nothing else to identify who had left such a note. Erik flew to the door and jutted his head beyond it, but he knew he would find nothing but random first-class passengers hurrying up and down the corridor. No doubt someone had been paid to slip the paper under their door.

"Erik, _what is it_?" Christine repeated, coming to his side.

His mind warred with whether or not to tell her. He could so easily lie and say that he needed to check on his chest of gold in the vault before they disembarked. Instead, he tipped the paper to her so she could read it.

Her lovely blue eyes darkened with sudden fear. "E-Erik, who could possibly know…" She paused, petite features now twisting with anger. "Leon."

He has also suspected it was the Frenchman who had done nothing but prod at their lives since they had met. He nodded, jaw working in his own rage. They had left Paris to avoid precisely this, and yet even so, his past was threatening to undo _everything_.

He fisted the paper. "I have to go."

"W-What?" She grabbed onto his sleeve. "You cannot possibly think that you have to confront him alone! We can tell Captain Santelli and let him deal with Leon. Surely we have enough witnesses and now this note to _prove_ that he has been harassing us!"

"He knows who I am, Christine. All he has to do is tell authorities that I am a wanted man." Prying her fingers from the fabric of his tailcoat, he held her trembling hand in his. "This is something I have to do."

Her voice thickened with impending tears. "I will come with you!"

" _No!_ " He did not mean to snap at her, but his own fears were surfacing. "I have placed you in danger far too often, dearest. I will not do so now."

Now the tears fell, carving damp paths down her pale cheeks. "But this is all my fault. If I had not-"

"No, Christine." He stuffed the note in his pocket so he could cup her cheek with his other hand. His thump swiped at the wetness there. " _I_ brought this upon myself. _I_ alone am responsible." He did not doubt his own ability to deal with this man, but he wanted to calm her rising panic. "Let me do this, and afterward, we will go to New York and you… you _will_ become the most celebrated diva the Americans have ever seen."

Needing to feel her skin, he bent and pressed his lips to her forehead. "I love you."

"Erik!"

Before she could say anything more, before she could react, he twisted from her and dashed out the door. Her voice rang in his ears as she called his name.

The hallways were cramped, impeding his ability to run at full speed toward the deck located at the back of the ship. Erik ducked around men and women, and stewards carrying luggage, doing his best to avoid shoving people out of his way. The less attention he garnered, the better.

His fingers sought the catgut in his pocket. He had no doubt he would have to use it. He would do anything – _anything –_ to see this voyage to its end.

Because everyone was busy packing and sorting through bill of fairs, or enjoying the ever-growing view of land at the bow, the decks at the stern were mostly empty. As he stepped outside, he glanced at the view to the west; New York harbor loomed steadily closer. Erik could now see the outlines of buildings and the white sails of other ships near the harbor. Nearby, the noise of ship horns grew louder. They would surely reach the edge of the port within a half hour.

Leon was nowhere to be seen.

Erik closed the door behind him but stayed near the white bulk of the ship. Tucked as he was, no one could come at him from a higher deck. The minutes ticked by, and he grew increasingly impatient, pacing from one foot to the next, the catgut warm in his pocket.

A figure emerged from the right. He recognized the white, black-trimmed jacket and hat, the youthful face. Laurent walked carefully, following the line of the railing, his hands raised at the level of his eyes.

No, surely not Laurent. Could Erik have misjudged the young man? He stared narrow-eyed as the steward walked until he was directly in front of Erik, perhaps five meters away. Too far for any sudden attacks, not on this open spread of deck. Laurent turned to face him, his skin drenched in sweat. He was frightened. Of Erik?

Then another man emerged, following Laurent. Erik saw the pistol first, tucked at the man's hip, pointed at Laurent. The barrel quickly swiveled to aim at Erik.

Leon grinned at the sight of him. "I knew you'd come, Monsieur Daaé. Or would you prefer your other moniker: Opera Ghost?"

Laurent, keeping his hands raised, shook in fear. "I'm so sorry, Monsieur Daaé. I didn't know anything! Monsieur Bellaguet did not tell me-"

"Shut up!" Leon snapped, jerking the pistol in the steward's direction before placing it back toward Erik. "You are here as nothing more than a pair of hands. Do what you're told if you want to come out of this alive."

"Laurent is correct," Erik said, keeping his own tone calm and level. He removed his hand from his pocket, showing both were empty. "He knows nothing about me. He is innocent in this."

"Ah, well, I need his assistance. Like I said, he can stay alive if he helps me out." Leon leaned casually against the railing. "I knew there was something off about you, what with that hideous mask of yours, but your little _wife_ helped me figure it out. Any idiot who frequented the opera could have put all the coincidences together." His face twisted into a sneer once again. "Not that I ever cared for such drivel. I only ever went to do business afterward with a ballet rat on my lap."

Erik could have denied all of it, but there was little point. No matter what he said, Leon was convinced. What he needed was to look for some way to divert Leon's attention long enough to dash past the gun. Patience to wait for the right moment would have to suffice. In response, he said nothing.

Leon dug out his flask and took a swig. Good. The brandy would make him even more stupid. "I'm fortunate to have met you, Monsieur Opera Ghost. I want to go back to France, and _you_ are my ticket there. The gendarmerie will pay me the bounty on your head, freeing me from financial ruin. _You_ will face the guillotine for murder. And your wife." Here he let out a large chuckle. "Your bitch wife will have to enter a new country with _nothing_!"

* * *

Christine's heart pounded as she watched Erik's tall black figure disappear into the crowded hallway. Her immediate instinct had been to follow, to be at his side as he dealt with whatever horrid plot Leon had concocted. However, she knew Erik would have forbidden her.

 _"I brought this upon myself. I alone am responsible."_

Perhaps he was right. Erik had terrified those of the opera house. He had swindled the managers of money and killed those who had gotten in his way. He had lied to her about his identity, let her believe for years that he was an angel so that he could become close to her. And when she had tried to discover his true appearance, when she had tried to escape his frightening rage, he had attempted to take away her very right to choose the path to her own happiness.

But in the end, he had turned her free. He had made the right choice. And in every moment afterward, he had sought to make amends.

 _"I love you."_

She could not let him face his past alone. They were now entwined, she and him. Their lives had intersected so often that she no longer saw a way to part them.

Falling to her knees beside her trunk, Christine dug into the contents. She found the carpet bag, found the bundle of scarf. Within the silk, she found the heavy weight of the pistol Nadir Khan had given her in a moment that now seemed so long ago. The brass handle curved in her hand, the inlaid turquoise stones cool to the touch.

Finding the accompanying bag of bullets, she loaded one of them with upmost care and tucked another beneath the bottom edge of her bodice. She did not yet cock the trigger, not wanting to accidentally fire the weapon on her way to the deck. Then she piled everything back inside her trunk and locked it tight.

She tied her cloak around her neck and used the thick folds to hide the pistol at her side. Taking a steadying breath, Christine stepped out into the hallway.


	18. Soot and Fire

**Alas, this chapter has taken me almost two weeks, but good news! I am done with teaching for the summer, so I hope to post at least at my usual weekly schedule if not sooner.**

 **P.S. I'm now on Tumblr if you want to hit me up! i. am. melancholys. child (no spaces).  
**

 **Onward!**

* * *

 **Chapter 18: Soot and Fire**

The ship moved steadily onward into New York harbor. Gradually, buildings rose up on either side of them, along with other ships, both those with sails closed up tight near docks and those passing them by. The white sails gleamed in the darkness along with pinpricks of nearby lamps along the docks. A gentle breeze rustled their hair.

Erik kept his gaze leveled upon Leon – and the pistol the man carried. As soon as he had an opening, he would take it. Laurent stood directly in front of Erik, doing his best not to shake. Erik wanted to offer him hopefulness, but he knew they were dealing with someone unstable. At least Laurent had given up on trying to speak, which had only angered the man.

Leon tossed Laurent a bit of rope. "Tie him up," he commanded.

Laurent looked at Erik, who did not move, with pleading eyes.

"Walk to the railing," Leon said to Erik, gesturing with the barrel of the gun. "Slowly."

Erik began to do as asked, moving away from the door that led inside the ship. Leon kept too much distance between them, pivoting as Erik strode closer to the edge of the deck. Even Erik could not leap across such a space without risking being shot at close range. He came to stand next to Laurent.

"Tie his hands behind his back," Leon ordered.

"Stay calm," Erik told the young man. "Do as he asks." He ignored the way Leon mocked his own words in a sing-song voice.

Erik turned away and put his wrists together behind him. Laurent's hands shook, and he struggled with getting the rope around Erik's broad palms. Erik was concerned for the young man's safety; he did not doubt that Leon would dispose of Laurent if something forced his hand.

"Hurry up!" Leon hissed, taking a menacing step forward.

Laurent managed to secure the rope around one of Erik's wrists in an unintentionally loose knot from which Erik could easily slip free. It was to Erik's benefit that Laurent was too nervous to do a decent job; in any case, the young man was a steward, not a sailor used to tying knots.

"M-Monsieur," he stammered, "your other hand, _merci_."

* * *

Christine shouldered her way through the crowds of passengers and crew rushing about the ship. The excited energy was now palpable; they must be growing close to the harbor. As she approached the back of the ship, the people thinned, and soon, she was alone.

Her heart hammered in her chest, but she pressed onward. Two weeks ago, she had left Erik to a mob ready to devour him for his crimes. She would not abandon him again.

The door that led to the deck was heavy, and she had to lean her weight against it to push it open. As she did so, she pulled back the hammer of the pistol, enabling the weapon to fire if she so needed.

The sight that greeted her froze the blood within her veins. Laurent, busy with a rope around one of Erik's wrists. Leon, pointing a gun at her beloved. Three pairs of eyes swiveled to her as she stepped free of the door and let it slam shut behind her. For a moment, that weapon aimed at her before alighting back upon Erik.

Erik's eyes widened in sudden, naked fear. For her. "Christine!" he hissed.

Leon recovered quickly, belly laughing. "Your woman is here. Capturing you just got a lot easier, Ghost."

Christine stepped forward, holding her own pistol with two hands, the barrel shaking only slightly. "This is a mistake, Monsieur Bellaguet. I demand that you release my husband at once."

He only laughed all the harder. "Or what? I doubt you could pull the trigger, Madame Daaé. Best you put that down before you hurt yourself."

"Again, I say to you – release my husband." She kept the gun trained on him, glancing at Erik. "Whatever you believe he has done, he has done nothing to _you_."

Leon shrugged. "That matters not. I need the cash." He snapped to Laurent, "Hurry up!"

With panicked eyes, Christine watched as Laurent wound the rope around Erik's other wrist, leaving a bit of space between his hands. "I am warning you," she said to Leon. "I am willing to do what I must to protect him."

She was, she realized. She had found him where he hid in the catacombs, helped him sneak across the city to his flat. She had helped him as he had helped her when she was sick. She needed him as more than Maestro, more than a companion to see her safely across the Atlantic.

She needed _him_. And everything, _everything_ he had ever offered her.

Erik was balanced on the balls of his feet, ready for any sudden movement he needed to make. She locked eyes with Laurent, willing the young man to help them.

"We all have lengths we are willing to travel," Leon sneered. "Take him to the cargo hold. We will keep him there until we can get off this accursed ship." He waved the pistol at her. "Since you have so invited yourself, you may join us."

She saw the way Erik's jaw tensed. His posture, the dark glare of his eyes, told her he was both furious with her and filled with dread that she had come here. She wished she could reassure him, but she saw little reason to be able to do so.

"I hardly doubt _you'll_ shoot me," Leon drawled. He snapped at Laurent to take Erik to the cargo hold, and the two men began to shift to Christine's right.

When he was a few paces away, about to cross paths with Leon, Laurent deliberately tripped. For a brief second, one of his legs tangled with the older man's, who snarled and shoved him away with a curse about incompetence. It was the opening Erik needed. With Laurent's back to block the view of him for a moment, he darted around the steward and brought his wrists on either side of Leon's thick neck. The rope tied between them was just wide enough in length to wrap around the man's throat.

Christine gasped, and Laurent stumbled back with a yelp. Erik's hands were two white-knuckled fists on either side of Leon's head. The rope cut into the tender skin of his neck, and his face was quickly turning a deep red. Erik's face twisted with fury, his body towering over the other man.

"How _dare_ you threaten me and mine," he spat in Leon's ear, lips drawn back from his teeth. "That alone earns you an early grave!"

Christine lowered her gun to her side, though she kept herself ready to fire. "Erik!" Panic spun wildly within her. Leon had threatened everything she now held dear, but she did not want this, did not want to stand here while she watched Erik strangled yet another person. "Stop, Erik!"

Erik lunged backward, spine hitting the railing, the jolt causing Leon to drop his gun. With both hands, Leon scrambled to dig at the rope cutting into his skin, his own fingernails scraping. His face began to shift from red to purple, eyes bulging.

"Oh God, Erik!" Christine cried. " _Stop_!"

* * *

Even though Erik was using this thicker rope instead of his lasso, his hands remembered the feel of fevered flesh between them. His body slid into the familiar stance of bracing another body against his own, of arching back to bring the other man to his toes. In less than three minutes, he could make this end.

He was aware of Christine calling his name, her voice reaching a frantic pitch. He came back into sharp focus. A man's pulse throbbed under his white knuckles.

"Get the gun, Laurent!" he hissed, and the young man skittered forward, grabbing onto the weapon at their feet and holding it cradled in his hands like it was a thing alive.

As soon as Laurent had scooted away, Erik released Leon just enough to let the man suck in a breath of air. "I should finish what I started," Erik jeered low in his ear.

Leon growled through spittle, unable to formulate a reply in words. Disgusted, Erik shoved him away. He needed no more blood on his hands, especially not in front of Christine, who was watching the scene with wide, frightened eyes. At his elbow, Laurent muttered a curse in French.

Then Christine let out a cry. "Erik, watch out!"

Time seemed to slow. Erik saw Leon pull a second pistol from his lower back, a bulge that Erik had not noticed through his own fury-filled haze. Laurent fumbled with the gun in his hands, trying to decipher how to work it, clearly inexperienced with weapons. Leon raised the pistol and aimed not at Erik, but at Christine.

Christine, who swung her own arm upward. Christine, who squeezed her eyes shut and fired.

Erik saw Leon jerk backwards, the brown fabric at his shoulder ripping open before seconds later a circle began to rapidly dampen dark red. The motion yanked him against the railing, and he was bowing backwards over the metal bar, feet scrambling for purchase on the slippery wooden deck.

His own pistol, waving wildly, fired in Christine's direction.

Leon, scrambling with one arm for something to hold onto, fell over the side of the ship, too stunned to scream.

Christine stumbled backward until she slumped against the wall at her back.

"Christine!" Erik shouted. He dashed to her side. She had a tear in her cloak through which the bullet had passed, and she was panting harsh breaths, her pupils blown with a surge of adrenaline. "Dearest, are you all right?"

"I-I think so," she replied. "I could feel the heat- the heat of the bullet." She looked up at him, eyes huge in her small face. "Oh God, Erik. Did I? I killed him, didn't I?"

Erik swept her into his arms, her slight body trembling. "You defended yourself. There was nothing else you could have done."

Laurent, who had been searching the water, walked over to them. "No sign of the bastard."

"H-He fell in the water," Christine said, shuddering. "I shot him!" She brought the pistol Daroga had given her upward, staring at the barrel. Then she dropped the weapon to the deck and flung herself into Erik's arms once again.

He smoothed her hair. "Your wound would not have killed him. His death was an accident, a product of his own stupidity."

Laurent swiped an arm over his sweaty brow. "Which is the story I will give Captain Santelli."

This surprised Erik. Laurent had little reason to help them and possibly jeopardize his own job. He could so easily turn Erik in for the ransom money himself.

Laurent seemed to notice Erik's hesitation and shrugged his own shoulders. "You have done nothing but treat me kindly on this trip, while Monsieur Bellaguet has not." He put his shoulders back. "Even if his stories about you are true, I wish to judge men by their current actions and not by their past lives. We all have our own demons."

Erik gave a curt nod, too overwhelmed by the easy acceptance of another and the fact that Christine had been in such perilous danger. He shifted his focus to her, wiping her damp cheeks. "Come, let us head back inside." He scooped up her gun, wanting to throw it overboard. However, Daroga had given it to her, and she should decide later whether or not to keep it.

The three of them headed back inside, electric lights now lighting their way. Christine walked rather slowly and stiffly. Erik vowed to give her more attention as soon as they were away from any prying eyes. As they ascended back to the upper levels of the ship, the crowds grew again, now mostly stewards readying luggage for departure in the early morning.

When they reached their cabin, they paused, facing Laurent.

"Thank you," Erik murmured. "You… did not have to assist us as you did."

Laurent shrugged. "I do not believe in coincidences, Monsieur Daaé. Perhaps we were meant to meet upon this ship together." He peered at Christine, who had her arms wrapped around her middle. "Madame Daaé, you have a talent for singing that I have never witnessed before. I sincerely believe I will soon be able to watch you upon the stage."

She gave him a tight-lipped smile. "Thank you, Laurent."

Nodding, he was about to rush off when a jolt rocked the entire ship. Laurent was slammed into the side of the hallway. Christine would have fallen to the floor if Erik had not grabbed onto her upper arms to steady her.

"What in God's name was that?" Laurent sputtered, climbing back to his feet. He replaced his cap from where it had fallen off his dark brown hair.

Startled voices rose up around them, coming from the staterooms positioned along the passage. Some passengers rushed out of their rooms, looking around frantically for the source of the commotion. Erik heard the groaning grind of metal upon metal from somewhere in the bowels of the ship, the sound also felt in the soles of his feet.

"We crashed?" he offered. Of course, _of course_ they had crashed. Would tonight's atrocities never cease? All he wanted was some warm tea to share with Christine, and to perhaps hold her in his arms if she would allow him.

"Maybe so." Laurent's eyes were startled, but he remained calm. "I can go find out."

They watched him vanish down the hallway. Other stewards and crew headed in the same direction, stopping whatever task related to luggage that they had currently been doing. Erik gently ushered Christine into their cabin, guiding her to sit by the desk. She had seemed dazed ever since the mess with Leon. The hole in her cloak from the bullet was more evident now as she pulled it tightly around her. How closely he had come to losing her.

He bent down, laying a hand on her knee. "Christine."

She blinked, fresh tears spilling. "I will be fine," she said so softly he could barely hear her. "Do you truly believe we crashed?"

"Or perhaps we ran aground. This harbor is a crowded one, even during the night, and there is little light upon the water to use for navigation." He wanted to ease her fears, but even he felt uncertain. They would both breathe easier once they were off this damnable ship. "Do you want me to follow Laurent and find out what has happened?"

She shook her head. "No, stay with me, please? I-I would rather have you here."

"As you wish." His heart swelled with her words, but he pushed those selfish thoughts aside for now.

Another squeaking groan came from deep within the ship, and Christine lurched to clutch his hand. "Erik!"

"Stay calm, dearest."

As soon as he spoke those words, the vast bulk of the ship began to tilt sideways.

* * *

Anything not tied down in the room slid to the floor. Most of the furniture held fast, bolted to the walls, but Christine got up from the chair as it toppled over. Erik held fast onto her, and the both of them maneuvered to the door frame, which was now angled downward. The ship tilted, tilted further until she feared it would completely turn sideways, and then stopped in this new position.

Something truly terrible had happened.

Screams and confused shouts rose up around them like billowing waves of panic.

Christine's side burned just above her hip. She knew Leon's bullet had blown a hole in her cloak, so it had not lodged in her side. Was this what getting grazed by a bullet felt like? As a little girl, she had spent too much time in the sun, her cheeks turning a blazing pink that had felt something like her side did now. Her skin also seemed damp. She should check it for blood, and thought to do so once they had returned to the cabin, but then they had heard that horrible scraping sound before her world fully fell apart.

Erik struggled with the heavy door and finally pried it open, the new angle making it difficult. He ducked his head out, and when he turned back to her, his dark eyes told her everything.

They were in trouble.

First, Leon had threatened their lives – _and shot her_ – and now the very ship itself had become unsafe. She swallowed down the rising panic that thickened her throat. She had to remain strong and calm. She had to push aside the dull pain above her hip. Such a small scrap would have to wait.

Erik outstretched a hand, and she went to his side, grateful when he put an arm around her shoulders to both steady her and keep her close. "We have to get off this ship," he said with utmost seriousness. "This tilting means the hull has been breached."

"T-the ship will sink?"

"This seems likely."

 _Oh god!_ Erik's other hand caressed her cheek, drawing her attention back to him. He was warm and firm against her, and even though her heart continued to pound heavily in her chest, she had to be as brave as he was.

"Christine," he said, taking her chin, "I promised I would see you safely to New York, did I not?"

"Erik-"

"I want you to stay as close to me as possible, and do not let go of my hand. Do you understand?"

She nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat. His hand slid into hers, his large palm cool and dry and fitting hers perfectly. After glancing into the hallway again, he started to pull her from the room, but she hung back.

"Wait, Erik. My father's violin. I cannot leave it here!" If the ship sank, it would take his violin to the depths of New York harbor, and she could not bear the thought.

He appeared to hesitate, then nodded his consent. Rushing over to her trunk, she unlocked it and pulled the sleek black case free. She caught sight of Erik's composition papers that lay scattered upon the floor, and she quickly grabbed them up, folding the parchment and stuffing them atop the violin within the case. He watched, face impassive, but he squeezed her hand when he took it again.

Without another word, they hurried into the hallway. The scene was a growing mass of chaos as passengers beginning to emerge from their cabins stumbled to get through the slanted passage.

"We must get outside," Erik said sharply, gripping her hand tighter.

They headed down a familiar path they usually took when trying to make their way to a promenade deck. However, the crowd here was thick, and they were not able to travel quickly. Erik muttered a curse under his breath.

Erik soon ducked down a different hallway in an effort to move away from the throngs of ever-increasingly panicked people. However, she soon noticed that the air was becoming thicker. They rounded one bend and came face-to-face with flames licking around the edges of a doorway.

Fire? The ship was on _fire_?

Christine felt the heat upon her face just a moment before Erik backpedaled, yanking her away. The sudden motion pulled her hurt side, and she felt a new surge of wetness trickle down her skin. She needed to tell Erik the bullet had grazed her, but what could they do about it now? She did not want to worry him unnecessarily. Like he had said – they needed to get off this ship as soon as possible.

"The other way," Erik said through gritted teeth. "There is a crew passageway."

She had no breath to answer, letting him tug her onward. The throngs of people thinned here, and so did the smoke. Erik shouldered into one closed door, finding it locked, cursed and launched them down a different path. For a moment, they went into a small corridor, until a hand lashed out and grabbed onto Erik's arm.

It was Laurent, face smudged with a streak of black soot.

"This way!" the young man shouted.

Erik gave a sharp nod, and they followed the steward, who seemed to have lost his hat somewhere. " _La Roche_ hit another ship, and a hole in the hull has caused the tilting. We do not think she will sink, but the crash caused a fire in the boiler room that has spread." He gave them both a look over his shoulder, eyes wide and frightened, but voice steady. "This entire ship may go up in flames. The main passages are too crowded to get through, but there are a few lifeboats this way."

They climbed downward, going against Christine's instincts to go up and away from any water. Erik held fast to her hand, as attentive as ever, helping her along.

Finally, they stepped out onto a deck. They were much lower to the waterline here, the rancid scent of the harbor strong in Christine's nostrils. Several crew members struggled with a lifeboat. There were at least five boats along this portion of the deck, and soon passengers began to hear that they were being lowered.

"This one is ready!" Laurent called as the lifeboat began to shift down the side of the ship. "We can lower it as soon as it's filled!"

"In you go," Erik said.

Christine steadied herself upon his forearms as he grasped her around the waist and easily lifted her into the boat. She did her best not to gasp with pain as he squeezed her injury. Now was definitely not the time.

Soon, other passengers began to crowd in around her, and after watching them for a while, she looked over at Erik, standing outside the boat, with sudden realization.

"Erik! A-Are you coming?"

He gave her a tight-lipped smile. "I will join you in a moment. Laurent asked me for my aid to gather more passengers to this side of the ship."

She clutched her father's violin in her lap. "Please be careful."

He only nodded. As soon as Laurent was ready, the two men set off back inside the hulk of the ship. Christine and the other women on board the lifeboat – for it was mostly women and children – waited in silence. Everyone seemed afraid to speak, and what few words were uttered were whispered. Christine's side ached, but she ignored it. Another woman sitting across from her had a gash along her forehead as though she had fallen when the ship first tilted.

A loud noise like an explosion sounded from the bowels of the ship, and some of the woman around Christine shrieked. Smoke, thick and black, began to billow from somewhere on the right of the ship from where Christine sat. It was coal-filled smoke, and it burned Christine's eyes and throat. People pressed handkerchiefs to their faces; Christine held her arm over her nose.

The steward who had stayed with them, poised to lower the boat, gave them an anxious look. "That came from the boilers," he said.

A small group of people stumbled from a nearby doorway – several women and children, dressed in clothes worn by the third class. They came from steerage, which would have been closer to the boiler room. A few of them had small burns, and all of them were filthy with black grime.

Erik and Laurent followed them.

The steward rushed forward to help them into the boat. He and Erik picked up the children and placed them inside. One of the women, who held the hands of two older children, spoke to the steward in rapid German. Christine could not understand most of what she said; the words were too quick, and Christine's German was minimal at best anyway.

Laurent, too, did not seem to understand. But Erik did. He stepped forward to speak to the woman in her native tongue, and she grasped onto his sleeve pleadingly as she explained to him why she was upset.

"Her husband and son are still inside," Erik told Laurent in French.

"The explosion blocked their exit," Laurent said. "I fear it is likely too late."

Christine saw the long look Erik leveled upon her. She wanted to tell him to get in the boat himself, but when he straightened, she knew what he was going to do.

 _Come back to me_ , she willed as their eyes lingered upon each other. _I need you in my life. Please come back to me safely._

"I will go," Erik said to Laurent, breaking their gazes. "Get the rest of them in the boat." And he vanished back inside.

Christine's heart pounded as she began to wait again. The woman and her two children found spots upon the boat across from her, while she sat in the middle. The woman was not crying, her soot-covered face blank, the image of calmness for her children who cried at her sides. When the little girl glanced at Christine, she offered up her own reassuring smile. She wished she could speak to the girl.

 _La Roche Constante_ had traveled a decent distance up one of the harbor inlets. While she remained focused on the direction Erik had gone, she did glance around at the shoreline. New York City loomed beyond the stretch of water, buildings illuminated by gaslamps lining the streets. Oh, that she could see the city in the daylight with Erik safely by her side.

She desperately needed him to return. Her hands, sweaty in her anxiousness, tightened around the violin case.

"We need to lower the boat!" a steward yelled, grabbing onto one of the ropes that held the boat to the side of the ship.

Laurent stared in the same direction as Christine. "Hold a moment!"

"But it is full enough!"

"I said _hold a moment_."

The seconds continued to tick by. Finally, Christine caught sight of the tall, lanky form striding out of the bulk of the ship. His waistcoat nearly matched his dark suit, his hands also coated in black soot. His face had smudges of coal dust, including one that seemed to cover the eyehole of his mask.

But he was alive, and he was here.

As he grew nearer, she noticed that he carried a small form in his arms. A tiny boy, missing his shoes, clung to Erik's neck. When they reached the boat, the German mother near Christine cried out, reaching for the boy, calling his name. Erik tried to hand the child over, but the little one only tightened his grip.

Jaw resolute, Erik stepped into the boat, settling into the space normally occupied by whomever would row it, beside Christine. "We are full, Laurent," he gritted.

But what about the woman's husband? Laurent clambered in and began to lower them, and Christine held her breath until the jerky movements set them upon the smooth water of the harbor. Once settled, Erik took up the oars. The boy continued to hug him, legs wrapped around Erik's torso. The mother scooted closer and rubbed the boy's back soothingly while her two older children hugged her body.

"What about her husband?" Christine asked in a choked whisper, unable to stay silent.

"He died saving his child," he replied, eyes focused upon the _La Roche_ as he rode backward. Erik switched to German, speaking softly to the woman, no doubt explaining what had happened to her husband. Tears finally spilled from the woman's cheeks, but she did not wail or carry on. She put one arm around each of her older children, hugging them tightly.

The people in the boat were mostly silent, so when the little boy began to wail, he made everyone shiver with joint misery at the piercing sound. "Papa, Papa, Papa!" he cried in such a small voice.

Christine was thrown to the time in her life when she had uttered such a refrain. She had folded herself upon her father's coffin before they lowered him into the earth, calling "Papa, Papa!" until her voice had become hoarse. Soon after that moment, she had joined the Populaire under Madame Giry's tutelage. One night, in her dressing room, she had been overcome with grief once again.

"Papa, Papa, why did you have to leave me?" she had wept in her native language. "Papa, Papa, how am I supposed to go on with you?"

It was then that she had first heard the soothing reply of the man now rowing her to safety. In her dressing soon, he had begun to sing her a common Swedish lullaby, and when he had finished, his rumbling voice had washed over her dried tears: "We always find some reason to go on, do we not?"

"Who are you?" she had asked, a bit frightened.

"A voice in the darkness. Nothing more." And he had sighed. It was the sigh that kept her from fleeing the room, a sound that called forth every bit of longing in her heart.

For a long time, he had remained silent. She had held her breath, waiting for another reply. Finally, she had ventured, "Are you still there?"

And he had answered, "If you so wish it."

She realized now that he had presented her with a choice. She could have spurned that disembodied voice, given into her fears of the unknown and asked him to leave. She had no doubt that he would have done so. Oh, how would her life have turned out if she had answered differently?

But she had not. She had replied, staring upward since she could not pinpoint his location: "I do wish you to stay."

Now, she stared at the man sitting in the boat, straight-backed, a grubby child he had saved clinging to him. His flesh-colored mask was coated in black coal, and she tried not to let herself think about what he had done to save this boy. Letting go of an oar for a moment, he rubbed furiously at the eyehole of his mask, smearing the ash. That eye blinked rapidly as though trying to clear its vision.

"What happened?" she asked softly.

He glanced at her one-eyed. "The flames from the boiler room chased up the corridors, carried on billowing waves of ash."

She considered him. He was dressed in his usual finery, mask and wig still in place. His clothes were covered in patches of black coal. The sweat running down his brow must sting. He needed to remove his mask to clean his eye, but she knew he would not do so with so many people nearby.

Finally, they reached the far shore. Laurent climbed out while Erik kept the boat steady, and together, they were able to pull all of the women and children onto the dock. Around them, New York stirred awake. Someone must have noticed that they were in peril. Police, in their black uniforms and bowler caps, were swarming the dock, gathering their own boats to go help. Other men started pumping water in preparation to douse the flames coming from one end of the ship. Another lifeboat arrived soon after them, and still other people scurried about, bringing supplies to treat wounds.

Passengers sat wherever they landed, slumped in heaps upon the docks. Christine joined them, her side burning.

Erik knelt before her, cupping her cheek. "You are safe now."

She nodded though she was still filled with fear for everyone else aboard the ship. What of Marie and Henriette?

Erik gazed at her steadily. "Laurent has asked for my help once more. I am stronger than most, quicker than most. There are still many who need to get to shore."

She grasped his hands in her own, then raised them to kiss his scraped knuckles. "I understand. Can I help?"

"I almost lost you once today," he replied, voice a bit choked. "I need to know that you will _stay_ safe."

She knew what he meant. How could he help shuttle people off the ship if he did not know that she was waiting for him on the other side? Reaching up, she slid off his mask before he could move to stop her. She took a fold of her petticoat, not caring that the motion exposed the underside of her dress, and wiped the soot from the deformed portion of his face.

His dark eyes scrutinized hers. "You are my very life, Christine," he whispered as she replaced his mask.

She swallowed hard. "I will be here when you return, Erik." How she managed to say that so steadily, she did not know.

He squeezed her hands, then rose, striding off without another word. If he had lingered, she feared she might have said something to keep him here. If she had asked, she had no doubt that he would have stayed.

Hours passed. More and more passengers filtered from the ship onto the docks, spreading in a fan along the dark stretch of wooden harbor. Women dressed as nurses tended to the gashes and burns of different people. Christine did not bother telling anyone about her own injury; such a slash obviously caused by a bullet would garner too many questions.

A few bodies lay beneath blankets, stretched out into the night. Christine glanced at them as much as she dared, but none seemed to be women. At one point, she heard her name being called; it was her two friends – wet, but otherwise unharmed. She welcomed their hugs, but she was glad when they left to seek shelter. She did not think she could sit with them and engage in chatter right now.

For most of the night, Christine kept her eyes focused upon the long, dark line of the ship.

After an eternity, Erik joined one of the lifeboats. He heaved himself onto the dock with all the weariness of a man who has seen and done much.

Despite the pain above her hip, Christine was on her feet and running to him before he had fully straightened. His arms opened to welcome her as she flung herself against him, and she clung to him as though he was her very lifeline.

* * *

 **When researching 19th century ships, I was amazed (and rather disturbed) by how many vessels ended up crashing or catching fire - or both! It actually happened with such frequency that I thought I could include this plot point without it being far-fetched. I hope I did it justice!**


	19. Safety

**Chapter 19: Safety**

He was here, and he was safe.

The swirl of people around them seemed to melt away. Christine focused on the quick-beating heart beneath her ear, the muscles flexing as they tightened sure arms around her back to draw her closer. She wanted nothing more at that moment than to have him hold her forever, but they could not remain standing upon the dock in the middle of the night.

She loosened her hold enough to gaze up at him. The fondness mixed with relief that she saw in his dark brown eyes stole her breath away. Was it that instance that caused her to realize that she could not bear to ever be parted from him again? Or had she known a long time ago that their souls were inexplicably entwined?

"Are you well? Are you injured?" she asked him, smoothing her hands across the embroidery of his cloak. He had lost his hat at some point, and she could see the beginnings of a scrape blooming red across his exposed cheek.

"I am fine," he murmured. "There are more that fared far worse. The ship seems to have stabilized, and most of the fires are out, but nearly two dozen are dead."

She shuddered, laying her cheek against his chest once again. She could not find the words to reply. How easily they might have succumbed to fire or water – or, as she tried to push the man from her memory – Leon's attack.

Erik pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, covering her bare arms. "The night is cold, and there are carriages available to take us to a hotel. I daresay we can find one willing to admit us in the middle of the night."

"Without money?" Besides the violin she carried and his composition papers inside, the rest of their belongings were still aboard the ship.

"They will expect us to pay the bill later. Come." He gently took the violin case from her and folded his long fingers around her own.

From across the dock, Laurent saw them and motioned them over to an awaiting carriage. "The Fifth Avenue Hotel answered our wire. They are willing to take any of our first-class passengers that need a place to stay."

"What about you, monsieur?" Christine asked him.

He smiled, though the expression did not reach his eyes as usual. "I have much work to do before I can rest. Everyone needs their luggage returned, do they not? In any case, I am staying with a cousin." He handed Erik a card on which he had scribbled an address. "Please let me know if you need anything." He gave a dry laugh. "Or if you hear of a job in a French restaurant. This disaster has only convinced me that I should stay in New York permanently."

Erik tucked the card into an inside pocket of his tailcoat. Then he extended his hand, which Laurent shook vigorously. "You are a good man, Monsieur Laurent."

"Auguste, please. We have been through much together, have we not?" He opened the door of the carriage, shutting it after they both climbed inside. "Welcome to New York City!"

Christine waved as the carriage lurched forward. Soon, they had left behind the sight of the docks, of the masses of people still waiting to get away from the ghastly scene, of the ship still smoking against the night sky. The carriage turned a corner, the horse puffing white wisps in the cold air, and suddenly they were within the city, buildings rising around them four, five, six stories tall.

They passed the darkness of what seemed like a park, trees rising skeleton-like to their right, and then a large building encased in white stone stood to their left. The Fifth Avenue Hotel seemed nondescript from the outside – large and rectangular with rows upon rows of windows. The carriage pulled up to the front, one in a series of four all unloading exhausted passengers from _La Roche_. Servants scurried about, helping people inside, while stewards jotted down names in leather-bound books.

Now that her anxiety was settling, and the burst of energy that had carried her from the moment she had stepped outside to confront Leon was waning, and Christine's side began to ache even more. She had sat stiffly in the carriage for too long, and when she tried to clamber out, her legs crumpled beneath her. Papa's violin case clattered to the ground where a servant picked it up.

Erik caught her under her arms before she fully collapsed. "My dear, you have gone pale."

"I-I need to rest," she said, not wanting to explain. There were too many eyes and ears here.

He looped an arm around her waist, on top of her cloak or otherwise he might have felt the wetness seeping at her side. Even so, the pressure on her wound made her wince.

"A room, please, monsieur," she told the nearest steward.

The man peered down his nose at the both of them, then spoke in accented French. "Names and address."

Erik hesitated just a moment, so Christine answered for him. "Erik and Christine Daaé. Paris, France."

"Ah, you are husband and wife, then?"

"Yes." She struggled to draw a breath, her expanding ribs pulling her side. " _A room_ , please. It has been a long night."

"This way, Mr. and Mrs. Daaé."

They followed the man into the Fifth Avenue Hotel's main doors. Inside, the hotel was much more opulent than its rather plain exterior. Rich crimson curtains framed the many windows, with a checker board patterned floor and rose-wood trimmings. Christine dreaded having to climb stairs, but the man led them up only one flight and down a long hallway.

The steward spoke as he unlocked a door. "You will find Fifth Avenue to have everything you may require for your stay. It is the height of luxury. Not only does your room have a private bathroom – it also has its own fireplace." He snapped his fingers, and a servant rushed in to light a fire in the large hearth at the far end of the living space, while several of the lamps were also turned up.

The door opened into a sitting room. The walls were covered in embroidered wallpaper that matched the thick carpet beneath her feet. Plush divans and chairs invited guests to sit and relax.

Erik remained at the door, turning to the man. "I expect to be notified as soon as our trunks arrive from the ship."

The man gave a brisk nod. "Of course, sir. I am told tomorrow afternoon, at the latest."

"Then goodnight."

"Goodnight, sir, ma'am."

Soon, they were alone, and a fire was roaring in the hearth. They walked further into the room beyond the sitting parlor. The large bedroom contained the same luxurious furnishings. The four-poster bed was larger than most Christine had seen with a lush red coverlet and mounds of soft-looking pillows. She longed to drive beneath those covers and sleep the next day away, but she knew she had to tell Erik the truth.

She watched as he busied himself about the room as though securing the space for them. He swung his cloak from his shoulders and hung it on a rung by the entrance. Then he ducked into a doorway to the far side of the bedroom before coming back to her.

"As he said – a private bath," Erik intoned. "Shall I run one for you?"

"Soon. I-I would like to get warm by the fire first." Her fingers _were_ still numb from the cold and just beginning to tingle as they defrosted.

"Of course." Hurrying over, he pulled a divan made of dark gray velvet over to the front of the hearth.

Christine moved to sit, and she could not help but gasp as the twisting motion caused her clothing to rub across her side. Erik was kneeling before her in an instant, eyes laced with worry.

"What is it? You have not been yourself." He seemed to hesitate, then added, "If you wish, I can procure another room for myself."

She could not hold them back any longer. Tears spilled from her eyes, cutting tracks down the grim on her cheeks. "No, Erik. I-I should have told you sooner, but when Leon shot…" She took a fistful of her cloak near the bullet hole and moved it away from her left side. In the glow of the fire, the sheen of blood that cut a line across her bodice was more pronounced.

Erik sucked in a breath. "You _are injured_ ," he grated, eyes widening but voice laced with sudden anger. "The bastard shot you!" She nodded, and he strung along several words that sounded like curses in a language she did not recognize. "His fate was more than he deserved."

"E-Erik-"

Standing abruptly, he glared down at her. "Remove what you can of your clothing that is in the way. I will return with supplies." Lengthy legs carried him swiftly from the room, and though he did not slam the door behind him, he did not shut it softly either.

Christine bit back a sob. She untied her cloak at her throat and let it puddle behind her. With shaking fingers, she unbuttoned her bodice and shrugged it off, her movements slow and painful. The fabric was ruined, and she folded it with the stain hidden inside before setting it on the divan. The top of her overskirt was also blood-stained, and she knew her undergarments were also similarly destroyed.

She tugged at whatever straps she could find, chest heaving with her cries. She wanted to hold herself together, to stay strong, but exhaustion weighed her down. Erik's anger was only justified, but it still hurt. She got to her feet, tossing her bustle behind her, and the loosened skirts drifted to the floor layer by layer. A ring of red stained the top edge of her petticoats, and she suddenly felt light-headed at the sight of the gash in her corset.

The sound of the door banging open sent her grasping for her cloak. She held it to her chest, and that was how Erik found her – standing in the middle of waves of fabric, face wet and red.

* * *

He halted in the archway between bedroom and parlor. One hand clasped two glasses while the other balanced an array of linens and bandages, the most supplies he could procure from the front of the hotel management without threatening lives. A bottle of liquor was also tucked under one arm.

"Oh my love," he breathed upon seeing her standing there. She was dressed in only her undergarments, her cloak clutched to her like a shield. A circle of red marred the white of her corset. He rushed forward, setting the items on the floor nearby, doing his best not to stare.

"H-Help me?" she asked. She had been crying, that much was obvious. He should not have snapped at her like he had.

"Of course, dearest," he said, gentling his tone.

He was well aware of his own state of dress. His ventures into steerage, where the fire had begun to spread from the boiler room, had left him coated in smears of black soot. He could do little about his trousers at the moment, but he could at least remove his grimy coat. Quickly, he shrugged out of the garment and laid it upon the floor. His waistcoat and cravat were equally soiled. In a few seconds, he was down to his shirtsleeves, a better appearance despite the two smudges upon the front and his own sweat.

He guided Christine to sit upon the divan, not wanting her to strain her injury more than she already had, and knelt to one knee. Pushing aside any awkwardness, he deftly loosened her corset while she undid the buttons holding the straps over her shoulders. After the stiff garment was slackened, he was able to pinch loose the hook-and-eye closures down the front of the corset, doing his best not to let his fingertips graze her chemise beneath.

Once the corset was free, he eased the two halves away from her body. The linen of her chemise and the inside of the corset were a brighter red than the rest of her clothing. Luckily enough, the compression of the binding garment had kept her from bleeding out worse than she had.

"I am sorry I did not tell you sooner," Christine said, chest heaving with fresh sobs and winces of pain. "You-you have every right to be furious with me."

He glanced at her face. "Yes, you should have told me, but my fury is only directed at myself. My choices in life put _your_ life in danger. Again and again I seem to bring you only… misery."

Through her tears, her blue eyes were bright with something he could not quite put to name. "Do you have any idea how many lives you saved today? We are all worthy of redemption, Erik."

Even him? He wanted to believe her words, but now was not the time for existential chatter. "May I?" he asked, gesturing at her wound.

When she nodded, he looped his fingers through the cut in her chemise and carefully ripped the fabric farther open so he could get a better look. The top edge of her drawers had dug into the gash, which was bright red with fresh blood and still oozing. He examined the torn flesh for a moment, then released her chemise.

"I do not believe you are in any immediate danger, my dear, though I can see you are in some pain."

"Yes, it burns," she said, wiping at her own tears.

He settled a hand upon her knee. "Stitches might be needed, but I need the area clean so I can see. A bath will do it." Straightening, he made his way to the small attached room. The fancy setting of this hotel continued into the bathroom where rich rosewoods complemented the white claw-footed tub and pedestal sink. The water quickly poured hot, and he tested it before rejoining Christine.

"Do you… ah, need assistance?" he asked.

She seemed to consider her options, holding herself stiffly upon the divan. One of her arms pressed against her middle just above her gash, while her other hand clawed at the divan.

She swallowed. "Please."

Without another word, he knelt again at her feet and began to unlace her shoes. He slid each off her feet and was presented with dainty white-stockinged toes. He shoved aside such thoughts. How could he possibly consider her body while her creamy skin was marred because of him?

Fingers slightly shaking, he grasped at the bottle of liquor he had procured downstairs. Under her scrutiny, he poured them each a thumb-full and handed one of the glasses to her.

"Whisky," he said hoarsely. "It will dull the pain." Not the reason he drank his own, but even so, he clinked his glass against hers and tossed it back. It burned pleasantly as it went down. Christine hesitated, then did the same, sputtering as the amber liquid no doubt carved a path down her own throat.

Then she set aside her glass, and her next move was unmistakable: she drew up the hem of her chemise, exposing at her knees the ruffle of her drawers. As he watched, riveted, she tugged up the legs of her undergarment until the garters holding up each of her stockings were revealed just above her knees. Then she leaned back on one arm, hissing a pained breath through her teeth.

Right. The bath was still running, and she had little time for his hesitance. He untied the garters on each of her legs, freeing her stockings. As one stocking slipped down her knee, exposing her supple skin, he could take no more. As swiftly as he could without hurting her, he rolled each down her slender calves and pulled them from her feet, tossing the pieces of silk aside.

Then he rose and scooped her into his arms, careful not to jostle her side. She yelped but obediently held still as he took her into the bathroom. Settling her in the armchair nearby, he tested the water in the tub and turned off the tap.

When he swung back around, she was staring up at him. Tear-stained, dirty, hair half unpinned, garments bloodied – she had never been so beautiful to him. His strong, divine angel. In that moment, he was in awe of her.

"Christine, can… can you?" His words were inane. He would do anything for her benefit, if she only asked.

"I think I can bathe on my own," she said softly.

He nodded. "I will see about new clothing for the both of us, but I will return swiftly should you have need of me." He detested how presumptuous he sounded, but she only gave him a tired, beautiful smile.

After checking that she had everything she needed, he exited the bathroom, closing the door behind him. And then he was off again to the concierge.

First-class passengers were still arriving, waiting to be checked into rooms. Some were wet or injured. All were exhausted. Erik spoke in English to one of the desk clerks who gave him an annoyed look when he asked about clothing.

"Stores are closed, sir," the man said curtly. He had been in the middle of placing two very sour older madams with pet dogs, and so Erik let the inhospitable attitude go. This time. "Your valet will be happy to help you with clothing when he arrives in the morning."

Erik managed to not growl at the man. He left the lobby, heading to the supply closet where he had lifted items earlier. He piled his arms with extra towels and coverlets, then made his way back upstairs.

* * *

After unpinning her hair, Christine managed to slip out of her chemise and drawers on her own. Her cheeks still felt hot from allowing Erik to help her undress, but her side throbbed all the worse now that the compression of her corset was gone. Gingerly, she stepped into the filled tub and eased her way beneath the water. Immediately, the clear liquid on her right side began to turn pink.

She had not taken a close look at her bullet wound, did not want to see her own skin split open. The burning throb was all she needed to know how close she had come to dying.

A small bar of soap lay nearby, the floral scent heavenly as she began to swipe it across her arms. Once the water turned soapy, she dipped her hair into the water and scratched at her scalp to wash. She had no brush, no way to properly care for her hair, but all she wanted right now was to clean herself of the grime of the night.

She soaked for a while, letting the warmth of the water ease her aching muscles. Her injury stung with the soap, and she knew she had to take a look to make certain she had cleaned it thoroughly. Tentatively, she glanced down, having to twist a little to see. Bits of dark dried blood still clung to her skin. Taking hold of a washcloth, she swiped at the wound, hissing between her teeth.

Oh God, it hurt even more so now, but she had to do her best to prevent infection. She ran the cloth over the cut again and again, until fresh tears stung her eyes. Finally, she let the cloth drop into the pink water with a cry of pain.

"Christine?" Erik's voice sounded just beyond the door. She had not heard him return.

"I-I am fine," she managed. "Almost finished!"

He did not reply, but of course he was still there, likely hovering in case he was needed. Scooting forward, she pulled the drain plug of the bath and grabbed the towel he had draped nearby. The towel was wide and plush, and she set to drying her body bit by bit, avoiding her injury lest she stain the white towel.

There was no heat in the bathroom, and now that she was out of the warm water, she began to grow chilled. She towel-dried her hair the best she could manage and gave her chemise a glare. She did not want to put the revolting piece of clothing back on, not with its drying ring of blood. Her drawers were similarly ruined.

"Erik?" she called. "Did you find clothing?"

"I… did not. There is nothing to be done about it until the morning, unless you do not mind if I procure some by other means?"

By stealing, he meant. She could not bear it if their first night in New York was marred by thievery. "No, please," she said quickly. And then she stood there, contemplating her choices.

She had few.

Christine had spent far more than one night in Erik's presence dressed in nothing more than her underclothes. Only once had he tried anything untoward with her, and even then, she had been conflicted about what had transpired between them. She needed him to look at her wound, needed his help to bandage it.

She had to trust him.

And by considering such a prospect, she realized she did. Unequivocally.

"I am coming out," she said, so that she did not startle him. Tucking the towel around her body, armpits to her knees, she stepped out of the bathroom.

He stood beside the divan near the fire, in the process of layering a towel across the edge. She took in the array of items – cloths, bandages, a sewing kit. She gulped in a large, nervous breath of air at the sight.

"D-Do you believe you will have to stitch it?" she asked.

He gave her a measured look, though his fingers drummed against one thigh, revealing his own uneasiness. "I daresay I hope not."

She was chilled by the bath, and he seemed to immediately notice – he _did_ always notice these things, did he not? As though forever in tune with her physical needs. He stepped over and pulled a soft knitted blanket around her bare shoulders. His hands hovered there as though trying to comfort her.

"Sit a moment while I wash up," he said softly.

She did so, pulling the edges of the blanket around her. The ends of her hair were dripping a bit, so she patted them dry and tried to separate the knots with her fingers. The warmth of the fire felt heavenly upon her legs.

She heard water running in the bathroom, and soon enough, Erik reappeared.

He came out with his flesh-colored mask and black wig clasped in his hands before him, almost apologetically. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing the toned, flexing muscles of his pale forearms. He had scrubbed away the soot from his skin, and the sparse wisps of his real hair were damp.

He paused before her, shifting on his feet as though weighing his options. "These are ruined, I am afraid, unless I can find the means to fix them."

Christine thought the time for barriers between them was over, so she cleared her throat, gazing at him. "You know, there was once a time when your appearance frightened me. I will not lie… it was truly a shock the first time I removed your mask."

His flinch was noticeable. "I suppose my reaction afterward did not benefit."

"No, it did not," she murmured. "Though I understand now why you _did_ react thusly But…" She looked at him full in the face, the dancing flames of the fire casting dark shadows upon his deformity. If he had drawn closer, she might have traced the ridge of his lower lip with a finger. "But no longer, Erik. You do not have to hide from me, nor be ashamed of your appearance. I much prefer to see you as you are."

He blew out a long breath, then crossed the room with lengthy strides to place both mask and wig upon the dresser. Then he returned to the side of the bed. "May I have a look?"

"Please." She stretched out across the length of the divan, sitting up slightly. To her surprise, he seemed ready for her undressed state; he draped another blanket across her legs, covering her before any part of her was revealed. He was being so careful, almost distant, with her, that she briefly considered flinging the towel aside to see what might happen.

His fingertips, cool on her heated skin, drew her back to the moment. He had parted the towel and delved his hand inside to rest upon her stomach. Her muscles tensed before she forced relaxation.

"I must check for internal bleeding," he murmured.

Those sinewy fingers began to press and knead the flesh of her stomach, traveling the length of her belly to the skin around her gash. His dark eyes flickered to her face, but none of his touches hurt. He drew the towel further upward to expose her wound to his scrutiny. At the sight of it, his eyebrows drew together, his jaw working. He was angry again.

"How does it look?" she asked, wanting to distract him from whatever thoughts plagued his mind.

"Better, now that it is clean. It still oozes, but a firm bandage will speed your recovery. You are fortunate that your clothing compressed the wound and prevented worse bleeding."

Thin-lipped, he fetched a bandage, folded the clean cloth, and pressed it against her wound. She hissed at the sudden flash of pain, but otherwise held still.

* * *

Erik's mind fumed, and despite his best efforts to reign in his anger, he knew Christine could sense that underneath his calm exterior, he seethed with self-loathing. Christine had spoken of redemption and forgiveness, but all Erik could see was the ghastly red mar across her otherwise perfect skin.

He held the bandage to the gash for the span of a minute. During that time, he tried to ignore the rise and fall of her chest mere finger-length from his hand. Her belly was warm beneath his own icy touch, but she had not drawn away. The swell of her hip disappeared under the white sheet that covered her legs.

Her wound would scar, forever reminding her that _he_ had put her in harm's way because of his own selfish desires. His bout with madness had almost culminated with her destruction. Would he ever be able to live as long as a week without endangering her life?

Christine, ever perceptive, sensed his melancholy mood. Her hand, which had been clutching her towel around her body, drifted down to land upon his own. For a brief moment, he caught a glimpse of the swell of the underside of one breast before her other hand clenched the towel closed.

"I fear I might fall asleep here and now," she said, voice so soft. Indeed, she had grown still, the height of their adventures now crashing and carrying her into exhaustion.

He shook off her hand. "Let me set the compress, and then you may rest." He glanced under the dressing, pleased to see little blood upon the linen. "Sit up, please, my dear."

He slipped an arm around her shoulders to aid her in this so that she did not have to use the muscles of her stomach to move. With the upmost care, he held the bandage with one hand and rolled a long strip around her middle, securing it with a tight knot. She seemed even more vulnerable with the obvious white of the dressing, her blue eyes upon him and his ghastly visage, and he turned away.

"Thank you," she said to the long slope of his back.

"The least I can do, Christine." He heard her quiet huff at that, but he was already on his feet to avoid any rebuttal. Quickly, he once again scooped her into his arms, hands careful to remain in the proper places, and eased her upon the bed. He gave her a glance, but otherwise kept his eyes adverted in case her coverings had shifted. "Time for sleep."

He did not wait for a reply. Flitting about the room, he turned down the lamps until the only light came from the fireplace. Then, he gathered up a towel and made his way to the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

He took his own bath, washing away the last of the grime from the ship's collision. Death and suffering seemed to follow him whenever he went, whether he was the cause or not. He had not seen that much carnage since he had escaped Mazandaran. Briefly, he thought of Daroga. No doubt the Iranian would hear of _La Roche_ 's demise. Erik should send him a letter to assuage any fears that he and Christine had perished.

He finished bathing, drained the tub, and eyed his dirty clothing with disgust. Seeing no other option, he donned his undergarment and pants, as well as his shirtsleeves. He had no choice but to leave off his shoes and stockings; his feet had gotten wet over the course of loading and unloading the lifeboat multiple times.

When he entered the bedroom, Christine was beneath the covers in the bed, her head resting upon a pillow on the far side from the bathroom, her face turned toward him. Her eyes were closed, thick lashes upon her cheekbones. She seemed so small within that large bed, huddled beneath multiple layers of blankets. Padding barefoot across the carpet, he stoked the fire, adding another log. He could feel the fatigue creeping into his very bones.

Making his way back to the bed, he gazed down at her sleeping form. Then he grasped the extra pillow upon the other side and began to lift it.

Twin blue eyes opened sleepily, blinking in the firelight. "Erik...?"

"All is well," he whispered, continuing to remove the pillow and an extra blanket from the bed.

"What are you doing?"

 _Must he explain?_ "Only taking the pillow. Go back to sleep, my dear."

She blinked again, this time more rapidly, and she frowned at him. "After everything we have been through tonight, I will _not_ allow you to sleep upon the floor."

"Christine-"

"I _will not_ hear of it." That edge in her voice – he knew she was close to tears born of her own exhausted fury.

"Mademoiselle," he said, detesting his answering beg, "my clothes are filthy."

"Then, _monsieur_ ," she replied curtly, "remove them."

At that, she rolled over to face the other direction, not without a small amount of wincing in pain. Although she had the blankets pulled to her chin, they veered open upon the upper portion of her back, revealing a sliver of smooth skin tickled by the ends of her loose, curly hair.

Join her in bed? How could he do such a thing? Already, her breathing had eased once again, showing that she was already slipping back into sleep. Did the thought truly not cause her any distress?

In her condition, he dared not upset her further. He paced the small space beside the bed before finally deciding. His fingers landed upon the buttons of his shirt.

* * *

Despite her nonchalant behavior as she faced away from him, Christine's heart began to thunder within her chest. If she had been a cat, her ears would have swiveled to listen intently to the sounds of rustling clothing. She believed wholeheartedly that he should not sleep on the floor, not when there was plenty of space for the both of them.

However, how had she managed to invite him so flippantly to join her in bed? She was wholly unclothed under these blankets, and soon he would be as nearly undressed as she. Her ears heard the sounds of pieces of clothing landing upon the floor, momentous in their meaning.

How long he hovered there beside the bed, she was not certain. Finally, after an eternity, the bed dipped with his weight. He did not stir her blankets, instead spreading one of the extra coverlets he had brought. After he was stretched upon the bed, he lay still. If it were not for the sound of his harsh breathing, and the heavy aura of his presence, she might not have known he was there.

They had journeyed so far together. Had it truly only been a few weeks that had passed since she had begged Madame Giry for any word of him? That night she had seen him in the cemetery seemed so long ago, when she had both feared him and sought him out. _She_ had found where he hid, _she_ had protected him, and now _she_ was the reason he trembled next to her.

The blankets still to her chin, she rolled over to face him.

In the low glow of the fire, his eyes swiveled to catch hers. "Christine?" he asked, and the sound of her name upon those lips only stirred her resolve even further.

She reached out a hand from above the covers and skirted the side of his wide-spanned shoulder, his skin slightly warm to the touch. He jerked but did not otherwise move. "Is this acceptable?" she whispered, not wanting to offend him.

"Yes."

She let her fingers travel down his arm beneath his blanket. His skin was mostly unmarred here with a light dusting of hair along the top of his arm to his wrist. She felt gooseflesh rise beneath her fingertips as she made her way back to his shoulder. Then, she swept across the jut of his shoulder to his prominent collar bone. He held very still, the deformed portion of his face turned toward the pillow, his eyes not quite focused on her.

Emboldened, she found the dip just above his collarbone and began to travel down the center of his chest. She found only a few springs of wiry hair under her fingertips. For a moment, his heart beat frantically under her hand before she continued downward, following the span of his sternum, tracing the lines of his ribs until she found the dip of his belly. Her fingertips ran across the beginnings of a new trail of hair just above the line of his undergarment before he snatched her wrist in a tight grasp.

Erik pulled her hand from his blanket, gentle but firm. "You ought to know by now what your touch does to me, my dear."

"I do." Biting the edge of her lip, she moved closer and closer still, until the line of her body was a hair's breadth from his arm. She thrummed with a nervous energy, her own tiredness forgotten. "It is the same as your touch does to me."

She moved her hand within his grip, and he allowed her to do so, eyes fierce in the near darkness. With one finger, she did as she had wanted earlier; she traced the irregular shape of his lips.

"Christine-"

"Would you hold me, Erik? T-Touch me?" Her cheeks felt hot with a sudden blush. She had not specified how or where, and truly, she was willing to let him decide such details. "I-I need this from you. Please?"

Those lips pressed against her fingertip, making her shiver. His stare had turned blazing in its intensity. He brought up her hand to kiss the inside of her wrist, and then white teeth fleshed as he grazed them upon her sensitive skin. Her own lips parted in a gasp.

"Such sweet words, my love," he whispered against her wrist. "I can no longer deny you anything you ask of me."


	20. A Moment Carved from Time

**I hope I gave sufficient warning, but this fic has now earned a M-rating. I have officially changed it!**

* * *

 **Chapter 20: A Moment Carved from Time**

His senses were overwhelmed. Her slight body pressed against his arm, the heat of her felt even through the layers of blankets. The scent of the soap she had used mingled with the scent of her, one to which he was closely attuned. His flesh was still ablaze by her roaming fingers.

Could they find solace in each other this night? In some way or another?

"W-Would you hold me, Erik?" she whispered again, and twice was enough to embolden him.

He rolled onto his side to face her fully, resting his wreck of a face into the pillow. With one hand upon her back, he pulled her flush against him, and her head tucked so perfectly under his chin. She was cocooned within her blankets, and only seconds passed before this embrace seemed to not satisfy her.

Her free hand set to exploring once again, finding his shoulder and traveling around to trace the scars that spread down his back. Her pillowy lips kissed his collarbone, and he tightened his arm around her. He did not want to hurt her, did not want to aggravate her wound, and so he kept his own touch as gentle as his eagerness would allow.

The blanket had drifted from her shoulder when she had shifted, and he was mesmerized by that small expanse of creamy skin. He ghosted his fingers across it, dipping beneath the cover to map the blade of her shoulder. For a while, they merely stroked each other's backs, until she took his hand and, pushing her blanket further down, placed his unworthy palm upon her right breast.

He did not question what she wanted, turning his hand to cup the soft globe. She was infinitely soft and warm here, and she let out a delicious sigh with his touch, tucking her face against his neck.

"Oh, my love," he murmured into her hair. "You are exquisite in all ways."

He caressed the shape of her breast with the backs of his fingers. He had felt her before, but through her linen chemise was nothing like this sensation. Tentatively, he ran his thumb across the peak, feeling it harden beneath his ministrations. Christine gasped and dug her fingers into his shoulder.

He let his hand retrace across her body, roaming across her narrow ribcage to spread across her back. Oh, how he wanted to kiss her, wanted to sample every part of her, but to move too quickly might frighten her. He had done so before, causing her pain, and he would savor her to prevent such a reoccurrence.

And even so, if he took his single kiss now, what might hold her to him in the future?

His hand moved down her side and across the bandage coiled around her middle before following the curve of her hip to her thigh. She mimicked his touches. He kept himself focused upon the touch of _her_ skin rather that the reality of what she must be feeling across his own. Her thighs were womanly in their softness and strength – a dancer's shape encased in the skin of an angel.

He did not miss the manner in which she reclined back just so, giving him easier access to her in all ways.

* * *

Christine felt detached from her own body. Perhaps it was the whiskey or her exhaustion or the relief that they were both here safely together. Perhaps it was the fancy bed and romantic fire and feelings for him that she knew bubbled just beneath the surface. Perhaps it was only the way he was gazing down at her right now.

No matter the reason, she craved his touch, _needed_ his hands upon her.

"Erik," she breathed, giving him no reason to doubt she knew exactly who lay next to her.

In response, his hand trekked to the inside of her thigh. He skimmed the curls at her apex there before drifting up to her belly, to her ribcage, and finally, again, to her breasts. Rising a bit upon an elbow, he leaned down to press his lips to her neck. She shivered in response, hands lifting to his bare scalp. She loved the feeling of his own downy hair and ran her fingers through it, eliciting a breathy moan from him.

Those lips followed the path of his fingertips across the ample curve of one breast until he found her nipple. When the hot wetness of his mouth encased her, she cried out, arching.

"Easy, love," he murmured, his breath so intimate. "I do not want you to open that wound."

She cupped his cheek, in her haze unsure which one it was. "Please," was all she could utter.

She felt the curve of his smile before his lips found purchase again. How could such an act feel so good? But it did, and when he began a gentle pressure, his other hand lightly pinching her other peak, she could not help but undulate her hips, asking – no, begging – for him to delve between her legs.

Finally, those lithe fingers probed her curls, and she knew immediately that this was a different experience that before. The path was slick, one long digit easily sliding along her folds. His lips parted as he also inhaled sharply upon finding her thusly provoked, and she grew warm as she realized that he was as fascinated by her reaction as she was.

"Oh, my Christine," he said, running that finger up and down her wetness.

She shuddered when he reached where she ached the most, and he paused a moment before focusing upon that tiny spot. These slender fingers, these elegant digits, which could draw melodies from piano and violin alike, were studying _her_ to discover how to best draw out her sighs and whimpers. It took him only moments to learn what she liked best; his thumb encircled that nub while his forefinger sought her opening, delving inside with slippery ease.

His fingers worked upon her tender flesh as his lips plied her skin, overwhelming her senses. Her body quivered as her hips moved of their own accord, and she could little but cling to him, opening her thighs wider to allow him greater access. She was building to a crescendo crafted by his touch.

His teeth scraped her nipple, and he slid a second finger inside her, and the sensation of utter fullness, of him moving deep within her, sent her crashing over the edge of pleasure. Her body sung of its own volition, clenching around him, pulse after pulse carrying her to heights beyond this room and this bed. Still he did not relent, his fingers drawing out her tremors until she was sobbing her relief.

Only after she had stilled and lay panting did he draw his hand away. He kissed the globe of one breast before reclining back upon his own pillow. Through hazy, heavy-lidded eyes, she saw the look of adoration upon his face.

However, in all of that, he had not taken his own pleasure, had not thought of himself. The blankets had fallen to their waists, concealing what she might find beneath them. She buried her face against his chest once again, enjoying the way he immediately curled an arm around her. Tentatively, she moved the rest of her body closer, limbs heavy and sated, and then she felt it, the intimate press of his own arousal against her belly.

He shifted back. "Christine… this is enough for me."

"It is not enough for me," she answered honestly.

This was something she wanted to share between them, not merely take for herself. Slowly, lest he run from her, she slid a hand downward. His skin was warmer than before, and now it quivered under her fingertips with greater intensity, his heart skittering wildly. She feared he might stop her, but he only closed his eyes and pressed his lips to her forehead, a tender gesture of supplication.

She found that thin trail of wiry hair once again, the lean muscles of his stomach bunched with tension. She came to the waist of his drawers, which began at the dip of his naval. Feeling along the edge, she found a row of buttons and flicked them open easily enough. He audibly swallowed, one of his hands clutching her upper arm.

"Do you want me to stop?" she asked.

He shook his head, bending down to dance his lips across her neck even as his hips canted towards her almost against his will.

Christine knew little about the body of a man, but she had heard enough in her years at the opera to realize a man's pleasure centered in the same space as a woman's, that he had the ability to go inside of _her_. She had felt the length of hardness that had grown here before, and now she wanted to touch him as he had touched her.

She slipped her hand within, felt the presence of thick, wiry hair, and then _him_ , hot and rigid in her palm.

He sucked in a sharp breath. "Gods, Christine!"

"D-Did I hurt you?" she asked, but he only shook his head once again. "Erik…" She licked her lips. "Show me what to do? What you… enjoy?"

In response, his broad hand dipped under the blanket to cover hers, encouraging her to tighten her grip. What happen next was a blur – heat and friction, velvet skin over hardness, their hands moving together. When he shuddered, and a thick wetness coated their fingers, she felt like she had witnessed something utterly profound in its most basic nature. A sharing of comfort between them that felt more intimate than anything she had ever experienced before.

For a while, he panted next to her, heart slowing, body cooling. She pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw, trailing the fingers of her other hand across his chest. Then he slipped from the bed, blanket around his waist, to pad barefoot to the bathroom.

Her own eyelids were growing heavy once again, sated as she was in both body and spirit. Erik returned with a damp cloth and wiped her hand clean before kissing her wrist and pulling the covers back to her chin. She gave a sleepy smile. Her side was aching again, and exhaustion was pulling her under. She was half asleep by the time the bed dipped again, but she was glad Erik had returned without a fuss.

Rolling opposite him so she would not sleep on her side, she snuggled deep within the plush bed. A hand settled tentatively across her arm atop the covers. She grasped him and pulled his arm fully across her, entwining their fingers.

She did not miss how he caressed the black onyx ring upon her finger. She had forgotten she wore it.

He sighed against her hair, his own long limbs languid and heavy. She had almost fallen asleep when she heard his breathy whisper into her hair: "Oh, how I love you."

* * *

Erik awoke to the foreign sensation of a woman folded within his arms. She was silky and warm and deep in sleep, her chest slowly rising and falling beneath his forearm. As he cleared his mind, he recalled the night's events. His Christine, allowing him to dress her wound. His Christine, inviting him into her bed. His Christine…

He felt himself respond, and he tightened his grip upon her. No matter what transpired in the future, he would carry these memories for the rest of his life.

However, as he lay there enjoying the feel of her presence, worry entered his mind. He knew how much he loved Christine; the emotion was one with which he was becoming familiar. He thought he had made his feelings clear to her. But – and here he struggled to push aside such thoughts – she had yet to return them. At least in those words.

He had accepted this while they had traveled across the ocean, but he had only ever promised to stay by her side until she had secured a position at the Academy of Music. After she did so, and after he claimed his kiss, any security he still retained in this fragile relationship would vanish. She would have little reason to continue to allow his hold over her.

In his arms, she stirred, murmuring unintelligibly. He savored anything he could yet experience with her while he could.

A hard rap upon the door brought him back to stark reality.

He would murder whoever it was if they did not go away at once.

The knocking continued. Clenching his teeth, Erik pulled himself away from Christine with great reluctance, immediately missing the feel of her body. His pants were stiff and cold when he tugged them on, his shirt unpleasant upon his skin. His flesh-colored mask was still dirty, but he slid it upon his face anyway; it would not do to shock anyone with his appearance. He was still buttoning his cuffs when he opened the door a crack, glaring down at a bellhop.

"Does this hotel always wake its occupants?" he hissed, keeping his voice low for Christine's benefit.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Daaé," the young man said. Erik was satisfied to see him shaking. "It is nearly noon, sir. One of your luggage trunks was delivered."

Ah, the interruption was forgiven, then. He gave a sharp nod and looked into the hallway, seeing his own trunk sitting there with another bellhop ready to help.

"A moment," he said to them both. Crossing the room, he pulled closed the curtain that separated the sitting room from the bedroom, concealing Christine's naked form from view. Then he motioned for them bring his trunk inside. Once they set it down, he opened the lid, finding with a cursory look that his belongings all seemed present.

He found one of several small bags of coin he kept within and tipped them both, asking them to send up a proper breakfast – not luncheon – within the half-hour.

He tied the curtain back into place and saw Christine sitting up in bed, a white sheet wrapped around her torso.

"I heard voices," she said, rubbing at her eyes.

"My trunk arrived," he told her.

She gave a half smile. "That is fantastic."

"Indeed." Rummaging in its contents, he retrieved one of his shirts and his dressing gown, bringing them over. "I shall seek to remedy your own clothing situation if need be soon, but perhaps these will do for now?"

She thanked him. Her hair spilled over her back, wild in its magnificence. He bent and brushed a lock across her creamy shoulder, pleased when she only smiled up at him. Yawning, she said, "I could use a strong cup of coffee."

"Breakfast is on its way." He cocked his head. "How is your injury?"

"The skin tugs a bit when I move, but otherwise it hurts like a sunburn. Not too badly."

"This is good to hear. We shall change your bandage later, but for now, let us both get dressed."

She nodded and waited until he had ducked back into the parlor, letting the curtain fall once again. After what they had shared between them, enforcing privacy while changing seemed unnecessary, but he did not want to push too much too soon – for her _or_ for him.

Inside his trunk, he found a set of his usual clothing. He also plucked out a fresh wig, only a little crushed, and his black mask, which covered much of his face, sparing only his mouth and jaw. Unless he could salvage the leather mask, this one would have to do. He fully dressed, smoothing the wrinkles from his dark waistcoat.

He emerged in the midst of tying his black cravat to find Christine sitting at the vanity, pinning half of her hair up so it was out of her face. His dressing gown engulfed her small form, pooling upon the floor as she sat.

She glanced up to see him in the oval mirror.

How had he not noticed the mirrors last night? This one and the one in the bathroom were neither small nor out of the way – he should have gone through and covered them immediately, as was his habit. Was he truly becoming more comfortable with his own appearance? Christine did not seem to mind any longer. She had seen him unmasked more often than covered; in fact, she seemed to insist upon it as though his real face was her preference.

She was frowning at him now. "I admit, I have not enjoyed your other mask. It… looks too real."

"I understand this." He came to stand behind her. His black mask was a poor pairing with her beauty.

Twisting around to look at him, she said, "And this one conceals too much of your face."

His lips curled. His angel spoke such sweet words. "A mask I must wear, one way or another."

"Still," she protested.

A knock sounded upon the door. It was their breakfast – a large cart was wheeled in to park near the fireplace. Christine's eyebrows rose at the sight, but her stomach growled with appreciation. Indeed, such lovely smells were emitting from the many cloches.

Erik gave a small bow and gestured. "Shall we eat?"

* * *

Christine was used to eating something small for breakfast, usually a pastry from the bakery down the street. However, the plates of bacon, salted ham, boiled eggs, and spiced biscuits with syrup were more than welcome to her empty stomach. Even Erik partook of the meal, setting aside his unnerving mask for a while.

Belly full, she retired to the divan in front of the fire. Erik had pulled open the drapes, letting in what little sunlight outside had to offer. The grey clouds were dense overhead, adding to the ever-present chill in the room. Luckily for her, the thick material of Erik's dressing gown covered her fully, even leaving enough to wrap around her bare feet.

After Erik washed up and pushed the cart into the hallway, he came and sat by her side. "May I inspect your wound now, Christine?"

"Of course." She untied the sash and unbuttoned his dressing gown, parting the thick fabric to get at the shirt beneath. His shirt was large on her petite frame, falling to her knees, but she saw the way he averted his eyes a moment at the sight of her bare legs. Even after last night, he was still shy? She was a bit startled to find that the realization electrified her.

She unbuttoned the crisp white shirt underneath the robe from her ribcage down, giving Erik ample space to undo her bandage. His fingers were cool on her skin, and she felt herself responding to his touch once more. Her skin felt already sensitized to the most diminutive of his caresses; now that she'd had him, she wanted more. She was not ready to give herself wholly over to him, not in body nor in heart, but if he wanted to carve out a space for them to share such involvements with each other, she would not refuse.

If this made her wanton, so be it.

"Only a little fresh blood," he murmured, and he was so close, she could feel his breath upon her belly. He kept his fingers on her only as long as it took him to replace her bandage with a new one, but was that a lingering of his fingertips just below her breasts or had she imagined it? She tightened fists in his robe to keep from placing those hands elsewhere. Despite his affection this morning, he had given little indication that he might want a repeat of earlier events.

To her own embarrassment, a whimper escaped her when he removed his hands from her waist.

He had not replaced his mask since eating, and the expression that crossed his face told her explicitly that he knew _, oh he knew_ , why she had made such a sound. Was her sudden arousal so apparent? It must be, for his misshapen nostrils flared as though he was taking in her scent, and his pupils blew wide and black with his own whipped desire.

"E-Erik." She stumbled over his name, suddenly wishing she could make her fingers move to button up her clothing. "Thank you for taking care of me."

His stare did not ebb, and her own cheeks burned. She did not want to presume anything of him, did not want to take advantage of any feelings he had for her. But her longing for him did not ease. She shifted upon the divan to ease the pooling ache.

"Is… there something else you need, dearest?" he asked, voice low and dulcet.

She swallowed back a hundred different replies, her face aflame. Was he mocking her? But no, he slipped from the divan to kneel at her feet, settling a hand on either of her knees with intent. His dark eyes held hers, and she saw only his own yearning for her there.

While he still studied her face, his hands slid down to the beginnings of her calves, edging under the hem of his shirt. He kept his movements slow and deliberate, and she knew with no doubt that a single word from her would make him stop. The first touch of his calloused hands upon her thighs sent her reclining, already quivering for more, against the low back of the divan, and there was no further hesitation from him.

His hands continued their path along her thighs, bringing the hem of shirt with them. She spread her knees to admit the wide berth of his shoulders, this new exposed position causing her belly to churn with nervousness and a fresh surge of desire. He turned his head, and she felt the ghosting kiss of his mottled lips upon her inner thigh, and then again, higher toward her center, his breath warm against her tender skin.

Surely, he was not… he would not – the first hot lash of his tongue against her sent her hips rocking toward him. She tossed her head back, spine bowing, as he repeated the action and then applied a light suction that made her shudder under rolls of pleasure. This – this was so different from his fingers; this was a moist heat that threatened to engulf her with its combination of intense sensation and illicit action. And he – he seemed to take great delight in the exploit, feeding upon her like a starving man.

Her crest came quickly, shockwaves causing her thighs to tremble around his shoulders. His own groan of satisfaction sped her toward oblivion, his triumph at her release obvious. She felt herself pulse against his misshapen lips, and that knowledge kept her falling and falling, spinning in the throes of her liberation until she could do no more than lie there, trembling.

She felt him button up by her shirt and gown, and then he gathered her into his arms and held her until a knock upon the door signaled the arrival of her own trunk of belongings.

* * *

Erik had Christine go through several drafts of her letter, written in English, before he was satisfied. It was a minimal note, quickly read, informing the man who had first replied of her want to audition at the Academy of Music. Then Erik sent it off via courier to the opera house, a personal move that would no doubt garner at least some attention.

They spent the rest of the day resting in their hotel room. Christine had dressed in her own clothing, and they had unpacked a few of their items. She happily gave him time to his compositions – thank the Gods, for the notes swirling inside his mind were likely to drive him insane until he wrote them down. He had begun to add words to the aria he had crafted, and throughout the evening, he grew so lost within the melodies that Christine had to touch his arm to rouse him.

She did so now, letting him know supper had arrived. After that extensive breakfast, they were both in the mood for something meager and late. They both ate opposite each other, Christine filling the silence with chatter about a novel she had been reading. It was all so positively normal that Erik glanced once in one of the mirrors to assure himself of reality.

He had almost given up on receiving a reply that day from the Academy of Music when one did indeed arrive, also from a courier.

The letter was in English. Erik read it first in the native tongue, then translated for Christine.

Her blue eyes were shining when he finished. "Two days!"

"Indeed," he replied, piling their plates back upon the cart. "The mention of _La Roche_ must have sparked their interest further. They will be wanting a first-hand account of the collision."

She frowned at that. "The last thing I want to do is relive what happened. But if I get to sing for them, then it is worth it."

"You will dazzle them, Christine. Of that I have no hesitation."

Her cheeks pinked that endearing way they did when she was both flustered and pleased by his praise. "I do wish I could visit the stage before having to sing before them. Even seeing a glimpse would help calm my nerves."

"Ah, we can do better than a glimpse." He leaned an elbow upon the armrest of his chair, a devilish smirk tugging at his lips. "Would you like a midnight tour of New York City, my dear?"


	21. The Lies We Tell Ourselves

**Don't hate me. I'm just the messenger. :(**

* * *

 **Chapter 21: The Lies We Tell Ourselves**

Christine could not sit still in the carriage, practically bouncing with heady anticipation. Erik supposed the constriction of her corset must be helping with the pain of her wound, or perhaps her eagerness for their escapade tonight had overridden any discomfort she felt.

The case with her father's violin lay at her feet.

They had dressed warmly for tonight. New York City was shockingly colder than Paris had been. While Paris had been in the beginning throes of spring, with cool nights and warmer days, this American city was only just hinting toward a winter relief. No snow covered the ground, but Erik thought the temperature would be cold enough for snow to fall. He had experienced a few moments of snow in his travels, mostly in the harsher Parisian winters and the mountains of Mazandaran.

The harsh winter air did not seem to bother Christine much, enshrouded as she was in her thick cloak, hood pulled around her ears, gloved fingers deep within her fur-lined muff. He loved the red tint the cold gave her nose, as well as the gleeful way she pointed out the sights as they passed them. Not much could be seen in the hazy detail of the street lights. He vowed to take her sight-seeing in the daytime when she could properly enjoy a new city.

They pulled up to a huge rectangular building, dark against an even darker sky. Other people milled about the streets, mostly small groups of men stumbling home after drinks. Erik rapped upon the carriage roof for the driver to stop.

"The shape reminds me of the Opera Populaire," Christine mused, taking his hand to step out of the carriage.

"I am afraid the Academy of Music leaves much to be desired on design alone," Erik said. He paid the driver and sent him off so their movements were not watched. "However, I have heard the acoustics are impeccable."

She looked up at him, eyes aglow. "Can we find out?"

He answered by extending his elbow, and she took it, laughing. Oh, if he could hear that ringing sound for the rest of his life…

The two of them made their way around the side of the building until they ventured in the alleyway between the Academy and the tall building next to it. Erik scanned each door until he found one with a suitable lock; to his surprise, Christine said nothing of him picking the lock open. Perhaps she was growing used to his more unconventional ways.

The inside was completely black, so much so that even his eyes had trouble adjusting. Christine tightened her grip upon his elbow. "Easy," he said softly to her. "We shall keep the lights low so as not to alert anyone outside to our presence here."

"Can you not see in the dark, Monsieur Le Fantôme?"

More jokes? He grinned though she could not see it, delighted with her light-heartedness. Even a week ago, would she have been so at ease by his side in such a situation? Not so long ago, in a theatre much like this one, he had forced her to follow him down dark passages by gripping her wrist hard enough to leave bruises. Now, when he moved her fingers to entwine with his own, she gave his hand a playful squeeze.

Feeling along the wall near the door, he found a gas lamp and turned it up enough for him to get his bearings. Christine blinked beside him, still mostly sightless.

"This way," he said, taking up the violin and gently pulling her behind him.

Most theatres were laid out the same, and the Academy of Music was no different. It was not a small theatre, but neither was it special in its design; Erik easily found a wing that eventually took them to the stage. The change in the air let him know he had found the auditorium, the space yawning wide and murky before them. Using all of his senses, he brought her to the middle of the stage and set the violin case down beside her.

"Wait here," he told her, kissing her knuckles.

"Erik, I cannot see anything!"

He was already across the stage, but he threw his voice to murmur in her ear: "Trust me." And she shivered not from fear.

That was the only time he modulated his voice just so, however. While she had not been upon the stage when he had tormented the gendarmerie, who had attempted to seal him within the theatre, no doubt she had heard of how he had terrorized them – and the audience – by parading his voice around the theatre. He would not do anything to recall her memory of such events now. More than anything, he wanted to put the past behind them, especially when focused upon her singing.

He climbed the gallery on the side of the stage house until he found what he was looking for: a gas-powered limelight. Flicking it on, he swung the beam of light until it landed upon his Christine, who shielded her eyes a moment before grinning.

"Shall I sing?" she inquired, lowering her lashes coquettishly.

"Please," he said from his vantage spot.

While she began her usual vocal warm-ups, he made his way to the orchestra pit. Even in this foreign theatre, he felt at home, finding their grand piano with ease. Blinded as she was by the limelight, Christine did not notice him before her until he launched into the introduction of a familiar aria. She started at the first sounds of the piano, but she quickly sought her wits and joined in at her cue.

They practiced like this for well over an hour. Him, cloaked in darkness. Her, dazzling in the ray of light. Every once in a while, he paused, giving her tidbits of instruction, but there was a new strength to her voice she had not possessed before _Don Juan_ , a new confidence. Fear, he thought, had kept her song strangled – fear of the stage, of the past, of the future. Of him. Now, something had lifted from her shoulders, and she seemed… _ready_.

He could have continued, but she moved out of the limelight to cross to the hard-shelled case at her feet. Opening it, she held out her father's violin.

"Play for me? I would love to watch you here."

How could he deny her? He drew himself upon the stage while she made her way to one of the seats in the front row, settling into the red velvet chair. After playing a few songs he knew she liked, he decided to test out the string portion of his new aria in full.

His heart began to pound with a sort of nervousness. He wanted Christine to enjoy his song, had usually written music for only himself, not for others, but there was something different about this aria. He put the chin rest to his shoulder, raised his arm, and began to play. Christine sat with rapt attention, gloved hands clasped together in her lap, but he could not bear to watch her reaction at that first moment.

Closing his eyes, he focused on the melody. He had so often played through the motions in his mind, or with his fingers stroking and tapping along his thigh, but this was the first time he had put all of the notes to the instrument. It needed the piano, to be sure, but the verse flowed easily and fully-contained enough.

When he reached the chorus for the second time, he heard Christine's voice rise up to entwine with the violin. Startled, he faltered for a few bars before catching himself. Christine, his angel, was singing the words to _his_ aria, the very words he had crafted earlier. She wavered when he reached the next verse, but then she joined in again as soon as he reached the chorus once more.

Unable to go on, he let the violin's last note peal into the darkness beyond their small shaft of light. In the first row of the audience, she had risen to her feet.

"I- I am sorry," she said, breathless. "I took a look while you were in the bathroom." When he could not reply, she went on quickly, "I was curious about what you were composing. I am sorry, Erik. I know I should have asked."

He was not sure whether or not to be angry with her about the invasion. She had, after all, shown she cared as much about his music as he did. She herself had snatched up the pages before they fled the ship. He stared at her as she swiped at… tears?

"Oh God, Erik it was – it was _beautiful_ ," she said, slowly making her way to the far edge of the orchestra pit. "That song was unlike anything I have ever heard before – beautiful, haunting, sad, and wondrous all at the same time." Climbing the stairs, she joined him on the stage. "Please, would you play it again? I promise to stay silent this time."

His mind swirled in turmoil. To hear _her_ voice speak his words, these words that he had written. The moment had transcended anything he had ever experienced with _Don Juan_. Unlike anything else he had ever composed, this aria had been written with her in mind, not himself and his own self-loathing.

Mute, he staggered to the violin case and drew out the pages that held his song. Then he pressed them into her hands. "Again," he rasped. "I beg you."

Without hesitation, she nodded. He gave her a moment to look over the papers, heard as she hummed and mouthed the libretto. Ah, but she had such a natural talent that even he would not have been able to create in her.

Cheeks a bit pink, she said, "At your cue."

Violin to his chin once again, he closed his eyes, and he played.

* * *

Their strands of music entwined in the air around them, thick and weaving and unlike anything Christine had ever heard before. Perhaps the closest she had ever come had been the first time she had ventured into Erik's underground home, and they had sung together. But this was different. This was Christine bringing _his_ words to life.

Beside her, Erik swayed in synchronized motion with the notes he pulled from the violin. To hear such beautiful music come from Papa's violin once again, to know that Erik had been the one to compose it… Christine felt two hot tears begin to stream down either side of her face. She pushed past the thickness in her throat to finish the aria, and when they were finished and silence had fallen over the theatre once again, they stood staring at each other, chests heaving.

"Oh, my angel," he said. Eyes not leaving hers, he set the violin and bow back in their case and crossed the stage with long strides. And he sank to his knees before her.

Christine looked down at him, wide-eyed, unsure what to do. His head was bent, the thin bit of string that held his mask against his face visible in the stark beam of light. She placed a hand on his shoulder, wanting to soothe him. He took it and pressed her knuckles to his jaw just beneath the line of his black mask, kissing her fingers.

"I heard the music within my head," he said, still bowed, "but I never imagined it could sound like that when emerging from between your lips. Ah, Christine, what you do to the notes I create, and the way you elevate them to the highest and purest heights… would that I could hear such perfection for the rest of my life."

 _You could_. The words rose swift and unbidden into her mind, but her throat closed against them. His hands trembled as he reached to grasp the hem of her skirt, gathering up the material to press both the satin and her hand to the small strip of his face that was not covered by the black mask. This man, on his knees before her, could ask her at that moment to become his in every way a woman and a man could be joined, and she would say yes.

She would say yes.

 _Just ask me_ , she silently pleaded with him, but she could not be the one to suggest that they turn their pretend marriage into a real one. After everything they had been through, after everything he had put her through, she could not bring herself to be the one to ask.

For several long minutes, he shuddered at her feet, but then he rose, fervently kissing her hand again. "All of New York will love you."

It was what she had come here for, to sing on this very stage while lit up with this very limelight, and to have this very theatre filled with a cheering audience. However, as Erik gathered up his composition papers and the violin, she found herself longing for something else entirely.

They went about the theatre and ensured all lamps were turned off. Christine considered what kind of future she and Erik could have here. She wanted to sing upon the stage; she knew this with certainty. Erik would continue as her vocal instructor for as long as she willed him to do so; this she also knew with certainty.

However, he had stated before that he had a limited amount of money with which to support both of them. Would her meager salary as a soprano sustain both of them in this city? What could he do to earn his own way?

Then she had a thought, and she grasped onto his cloak to halt him in the darkened back corridor behind the stage. "Erik, you should share this music with others."

That blasted mask hid most of his expression, but she saw his mouth turn down. "I did not write it to be shared."

"But why not? You have such a gift, a talent that would bring such joy to others."

"I do not want to bring joy to others."

He said it so matter-a-factly that she reeled. She tried another tactic, wanting to convince him. "You said yourself that you would have to seek out some way to make money. _This_ could be your way!" His eyes glittered in the low light, showing his flare of anger. She pressed on, her own latent fears surfacing. "You need something to occupy you, Erik. You need something upon which to focus other than just cultivating my voice. You could make a name for yourself!"

He rounded on her. "I have many names, Christine. I assure you that one of those will do."

"We are starting new lives here. Do you want to remain Erik _Daaé_ forever?"

The moment the statement left her mouth, she realized how much she had likely just insulted him. He had taken her surname in order to allow her to maintain her true name while he protected her. It had all been for her own benefit, and yet she had just thrown his lack of a familial name in his face.

Beside her, he had grown cold and stiff, straightening to his full height. "If this bothered you so, you should have told me long before now," he said, voice low.

"Erik, y-you could take any name you wished. No one knows us here. You can be anyone you want, do anything you want." She could not take her words back, but now that they were laid bare between them, she knew they needed to be said. Here they were, in this city, seeking her dream. But what was _his_ dream? What did _he_ want?

He peered down his nose at her. "I only want-" He cut himself off, and she wanted to yell at him. What? What did he want? Why would he not tell her? Instead, he heaved his cloak from her fingers and continued down the corridor. She followed, unable to say anything more to stop him.

They left the Academy of Music the way they had found it and walked a few blocks to find a carriage to take them back to the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Christine was quiet, pulling her cloak around her tightly against the frigid air of the night. She felt Erik's piercing eyes upon her throughout the ride though he said nothing, even as they made their way back to their room and began to dress for bed.

When she emerged from the bathroom, wearing only her chemise, she saw him sitting in a chair by the fire, reading a novel. He was without his tailcoat, but he had not yet taken off his mask. The black covering, which blocked most of his face, annoyed her. How easy it was for him to hide his emotions behind a mask.

Standing there for a while, she frowned when he did not acknowledge her. Her lips thinned, and she strode over to stand directly in front of him. He glanced up, then kept his eyes pinned on her, raking over her barely-clad form.

"Thank you for tonight," she said.

His expression was unreadable, hidden as it was behind the full mask. He could have risen his eyebrows or furrowed them, and she would not have been able to tell.

* * *

Erik stared at the woman before him, having to slightly tilt his head up to do so. The flames danced at her back, setting her free-flowing curls aglow in soft yellow light. The fire also outlined the shape of her body beneath her thin chemise, and he kept his gaze carefully away from the very visible curves.

"You enjoyed yourself?" he asked, placing one bony finger in the book to keep his place as he closed it.

"I did," she said. "I always enjoy when we sing together, and your new aria is beautiful, like I told you before."

"Thank you," he replied, and meant it. "Your praise means much to me."

She took a few steps forward, the edge of her chemise grazing his knees. "I cannot stand this mask," she whispered. "It covers too much of your face." He thought she might reach to take it from him, and like so many times of late, he would have let her.

He sighed, unable to stifle his annoyance. "You would be the first to think so, Christine. But even so, it is the only mask I currently have."

"You could do without."

"Out of the question."

Folding her arms across her middle, she thumbed the bandage there. Then she seemed to make a decision. "I still have your white mask."

 _That_ stunned him. His lips parted in obvious surprise, and his other hand gripped his thigh like a claw. "Why?" he hissed.

She shrugged casually, but he could see the flush that spread up her long, slender neck. "I could have thrown it into the Seine, I suppose, but at the time, it seemed right to hold onto it. I know you said you were leaving that part of your life behind, but whenever I have considered you, that mask has followed." She gave a bit of a smile. "I hope you understand by now that I much prefer you without, but if you must wear a mask and if my opinion might change your mind, I would rather you wore the white one."

Hesitating for a moment, he reached up and removed the black mask, holding it in his hands. His deformity, lit as it was by the fire, truly held no horror for her as it once had, for she did not even flinch at the sight of him.

"You sincerely prefer the white one?" he asked.

"If you must wear a mask at all, then yes, I do."

He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Yes, he needed a mask to wear around others. Could he don the white mask again and make it part of his facade in this new city? Christine herself had said he could be anyone he chose here in New York, a place where no one knew him. Even with the mask, he could fade into the masses. He could choose a surname that fit him as he liked, and perhaps one day soon, Christine might decide to take it as her own.

"Where is it?" he asked her.

Oh, he did like the full smile that graced her lips, that exquisite flash of white teeth. "In my trunk."

She moved to get it, but he gently grasped her wrist and pressed a kiss to the tender skin there. "Let me, dearest," he said. "After so much activity today, you must be exhausted and in pain."

To his delight, she leaned down and kissed the top of his head. "I will go lie down. Join me?"

"In a moment," he promised.

Her trunk stood to one side of the room, near the dresser. He opened it, and upon seeing her array of underclothing, almost thought better of telling her he would search for the mask. However, seeing the way she gazed at him sleepily from the bed, he could steel himself and find it himself.

Bending to one knee, he gingerly parted the various articles of clothing until his fingers grazed the hard shell of his mask, wrapped in one of her stockings. From the bed, Christine gave a small, nervous laugh.

"I wanted to protect it," she admitted.

His lips curled. He unwound the stocking as he straightened, and a folded sheet of paper fell from the inside of the mask and landed at his feet. The paper caught his attention for a moment until he directed it back to the cool familiarity of the porcelain in his hand. He slipped the mask back upon his face, relishing the feel of the ceramic against his cheek. He had missed his old acquaintance, like slipping into a comfortable pair of shoes.

Christine was gazing at him, admiration creating a sheen to her blue eyes. She did not say anything, but she did not need to. This was the mask she had first seen in her dressing room mirror, the one she had snatched from his face not once, but twice. And now she had returned it to him so that _he_ might be comfortable. So that she might look upon his face.

Tenderly, he folded her stocking and placed it back within her trunk. And that was when he again noticed the piece of paper upon the floor. Perhaps he should not read it; the note had come from her trunk, after all. However, it took only a second to slip his thumb between the folds and flip it open.

 _Dearest Raoul_ ,

His very breath caught within his chest. He swung his eyes up to see her looking at him in confusion. And then, slowly, he saw that confusion turn to remembrance.

And finally, as he watched with his own increasing cognizance, her remembrance turned to panic.

"Erik-"

His eyes jerked back to the paper.

 _Dearest Raoul,_

 _I fear I have made a mistake in leaving you. When you read this, I will have arrived in America, but I have left my heart in France._

His eyes could no longer focus upon the letter, for it was indeed a letter to that most hated man. He caught phrases, sentences that sliced across his mind like scars.

 _My heart. Forgive me. Bring me home._

 _I made a mistake._

 _I should never have boarded this ship._

 _I miss you._

 _Erik frightens me, and I am being forced to pretend that we are married._

 _Come for me soon._

 _Forever your Christine._

Staggering back, he clenched the letter within his fist. "Forever your Christine?" he quoted, grating his teeth.

As he read, Christine had sat up in bed. She stared at him, wide-eyed, tears coursing down her cheeks, and this time for a very different reason. At least she was not trying to pretend that she had no idea what he had just found.

"I-I forgot that was there," she said hoarsely.

"How lucky am I!" he barked, and he gave a long, cruel chuckle, tossing his head back to laugh and laugh and laugh with his own touch of rising hysteria.

She rose from the bed, but he back-pedaled further before she could come close. "Please, Erik, just listen to me."

"I have done nothing but listen!"

She swiped at her own tears. "I understand that you are upset."

"Upset?" he echoed. "Mademoiselle, I am not upset. I am enlightened! At last I know where your true feelings lie."

She shook her head, long brown tendrils of hair curling around her shoulders. As always, she was beautiful. As always, she had never been his. "I wrote that letter at the beginning of our voyage, Erik, in a moment of anger. It means _nothing_!"

"And yet you kept it." He had to get out of this room, had to remove himself from the very sight of her that reminded him of what they had shared. Drawing himself up, he dropped the crumpled letter to his feet. "I will take my leave now."

Amidst her cries and pleas for him to stay, he stabbed his arms into his coat, shoved his hat upon his head, and swung on his cloak. He did not take one last look at her before he closed the door to the hotel room behind him. If he had, he might not have ever found the strength to go.

He did pause just outside the door, sucking in steadying breaths of air in case his hands wrapped around the first throat he saw. And the sobs he heard almost drew him back.

Almost.


	22. The Audition

**Your reviews were all wonderful! You keep me highly motivated. :)**

* * *

 **Chapter 22: The Audition**

For the first time in two weeks, Christine woke alone.

Slowly, she sat up in the large bed, her eyes swollen, her body sticky from sweat. There was no sign that Erik had come back since he had stormed out of the hotel room. Her body aching, she pulled on her dressing gown and padded barefoot to the fireplace. The embers burned low, but she could see no trace of the letter she had tossed upon the flames.

She rang for tea and did little than wait for it to appear.

She could not forget the look that had flashed upon Erik's face, the red that had crept up his neck above his collar, a stark contrast with the white of his half mask. She had seen that look before from him – the widened eyes, the trembling in his tall frame, the pure betrayal. That letter had not only wrenched his heart apart; it had damaged anything that had been built between them.

It was only after his footsteps had long since disappeared down the hallway that Christine gathered her wits enough to realize she should have dashed after him. If she had followed, could she have convinced him to listen to what she had to say? At least she could have tried!

Tea arrived. She poured a cup and drank it down, relishing the way it scalded her throat.

Then she noticed the note on the tea tray. For a moment, she held her breath, thinking that maybe… just maybe… but no, it was from Madame Marie. She and Henriette were asking to join them for dinner that evening. Blinking back tears, Christine sent a reply that afternoon tea would be preferable. A little company might be better than sitting around by herself.

She spent the next few hours tidying up the room. Maids came and changed out sheets and towels, stoking the fire for her and restocking anything she needed. They also offered to clean her clothes, and she gave them Erik's laundry as well; her bloodied garments had already been disposed of to avoid arousing suspicion. Christine could do little more than try to keep herself busy.

Outside, a few snowflakes fell. For a while, she sat by the window and watched them, wishing Erik was here to see them with her. Would he leave her forever? Would he come back?

A knock on the door. Henriette and Marie entered, and their hugs were exactly what Christine needed. The three of them sat around a proper English afternoon tea. Once they all had their cups, Madame Marie gave a heavy sigh.

"I spoke with Captain Santelli yesterday," she said. "He told us that Leon was seen stumbling across a deck and falling overboard just before the collision."

Christine hoped her face gave the right shocked response. "D-Did they rescue him?"

The older woman shook her head. "They did not, and they haven't even found his body yet. I knew Leon's drinking would get him into trouble."

"I am so sorry."

"I am not," Henriette pipped up. Marie clicked her tongue at her but did not correct her niece. "He was a horrible man, and he would have married me off to the first rich person he found just to get himself out of debt." She jutted out her chin. "I'm rather glad he is gone."

Marie took a delicate sip of tea. "Well, let us not speak of such things among other company, dear. In any case, Christine, I thought you would want to know after the way he treated you and yours. We leave for Boston early tomorrow morning, and I daresay we will be better off without him!"

"Here, here," Henriette agreed. "Though I wish we didn't have to leave so soon."

Marie pursed her red lips. "It looks like the weather is going to make a turn for the worse. Snow! And in the middle of March!"

Henriette sighed. "We had such a light winter in Paris this year. I should be glad to see some snow! What do you think, Christine?"

Christine swallowed her gulp of tea. "I too would love to see snow," she said softly. "We had piles of it in Sweden."

"Sweden?"

Marie's eyes were sharp. "Is that your home country, dear? I thought you had a bit of an accent."

"It is," Christine admitted, staring into her cup. "I moved to France when I was a little girl."

"How lovely. And where is that charming husband of yours?"

"He is out." Christine set down her teacup and twisted the ring upon her finger. She was not even sure why she still wore it. Was she supposed to keep up with the pretense of their marriage? Her audition was tomorrow afternoon – would he come to it? After everything they had been through, would he truly simply vanish?

She felt a hand settle upon her own and looked down to see her own tears splashing the back of Henriette's hand. She had not known she was crying, but now that she had started, the tears began to fall freely. Henriette gently pulled her teacup from her fingers and set it aside, and both women waited patiently until Christine had calmed herself and dried her tears with a handkerchief.

"Women do not cry," Marie said knowingly, "when their husbands simply step out."

Christine shook her head, sniffling. And then the truth spilled out. "He is not my husband." Henriette gasped, but Christine could feel Marie's eyes steadily upon her. "He was pretending to be my husband," she explained, "for my benefit, to protect me while we traveled."

"You have a history though."

"W-We do." She could not tell them everything; so many of those secrets were not hers to unleash. "He is my vocal instructor. I came here to sing opera. But we had a fight yesterday, and I am so afraid he has left me for good." The tears came again, and she pressed the damp handkerchief to her eyes.

"Oh, _ma chère_ ," Marie crooned. "I would bet my husband's small fortune that he is closer by than you think. He would not have traveled all this way with you only to desert you now. I suspected something like this when I first saw you together." She tucked a manicured finger under Christine's chin, tilting her face upward. "A man does not look at a woman the way he looked at you if he already has her."

Christine swallowed past a sob. "What way was that?"

"Like he would worship the ground she walked on if she would let him."

* * *

Erik waited until long after the lights had dimmed in the hotel room before he climbed to the second-story window. Christine had left the windows latched, as well she should, but there was little that could deter him. He slipped inside the hotel room upon silent feet and peered down at her sleeping form. She lay on her side, one of her arms outstretched to his side of the bed.

His side. He scowled at his own thoughts and set to exploring the room.

He found bandages in the bathroom and was pleased to see no fresh blood or signs of infection upon them. Her wound must be healing well. Madame Marie and her niece had visited earlier; he was glad that Christine had not spent the entire day alone. He changed into a fresh set of clothes and came back to the bed.

How easy it would be to wake her and beg for her affection. He had reduced himself to such behavior before. However, this time was different. He had already let her go once, allowed her to return to that miserable blonde-headed man, and if that was what she wanted again, he would not stand in her way. His soul could not take any further duplicity from her.

He bent, almost allowing his gloved hand to caress her cheek. But he held himself back. Instead, he left his brief note beside her where she would find it when she woke.

And then he was gone, back into the night in a swirl of cloak.

* * *

Upon cracking open bleary eyes, Christine spied the note on the pillow beside her. She was fully awake in an instant, grabbing the note with shaky fingers and unfolding it. She recognized the inelegant scrawl immediately.

 _A carriage will arrive at 4 o'clock._

 _Be ready._

 _-E_

Erik had been here, had stood beside the bed while she slept. Her face heated when she considered how long he might have stared down at her. She wished she could have been awake to meet him. If she could earn but one moment with him, she might be able to explain the letter to Raoul… and explain her own feelings. Her thoughts were still so jumbled, she was not sure what she would say, given the chance.

Pressing her lips to the crisp paper, she inhaled, imaging she could find his scent upon the parchment.

Christine spent the day preparing for her audition. Despite her turmoil with Erik, she had to focus on her whole reason for crossing the Atlantic. She drank warm lemon tea and avoided spicy foods. After luncheon, she took a hot bath to open up her lungs, and she pretended that she scrubbed herself clean for her audition and not for _him_.

She had noticed that women in New York dressed more demurely during the day, so she chose a dress of deep purple silk that fit high upon her neck and fell to her wrists. The fitted bodice reached to her upper thighs and showed off her figure while allowing her to keep her corset loosened for singing. The bustle was smaller than usual and ordained with silk woven tassels instead of bows. She pinned most of her hair up except for a few loose spirals across one shoulder, and a small, simple hat completed her look.

In the mirror, she thought she might appear older than her years. What the dress and hairstyle did not lend to her age, the new fierceness of her blue eyes added.

A thin layer of snow dusted the ground, and the heavy gray clouds outside promised more. She remembered what Madame Marie had said about an incoming winter storm, and so she chose her thickest cloak and gloves for the carriage ride.

Before pulling on her gloves, she examined the black opal ring upon her finger – his ring. But she was not truly wed, was she? No, she was an unmarried woman free to court and do as she wished, and she would not appear to be anyone else at her audition today. When she climbed upon that stage, she wanted to be simply Christine Daaé the opera singer, the daughter of Charles Daaé the violinist, the woman who had crossed the ocean for this chance.

Sliding the ring off her finger, she set it in a shallow dish on the dresser.

Her stomach did a little flutter of nervousness as she left the hotel room and made her way downstairs. No one in the lobby took notice that she was unaccompanied. At such a large and affluent hotel, she was not surprised to see a half dozen carriages outside. The driver of one in particular jumped down when he saw her and opened the door. That one was expecting her, she guessed.

Bracing against the blistering cold of outdoors, she hurried over and climbed inside, settling onto the bench seat as the carriage lurched into motion. She was a bit disappointed to find herself alone, but she shook herself against the thought. Had she truly considered that Erik would be waiting in such a confined space for her? She only hoped he would come to her audition. The thought of singing without his presence made her almost sick with dread.

The thick curtains dampened the brisk wind, but she lifted them a moment to peer outside. The park across the street was covered in a thickening blanket of snow that also clung to the spidery tree branches. The white was a stark divergence with the impending darkness of night. There was no sunset, only gray clouds fading into an even darker gray. Night came so early this time of year, and even more so with the thick clouds overhead.

The wind blew in icy bits of snowflake, so she hastily closed the curtain. The driver had not asked her for her destination, and she considered how easily she still trusted Erik to take care of her in all ways. Soon, the coach halted, and she glanced out of the window to see the Academy of Music rising just beyond the sidewalk.

She moved to pay the driver, but he only raised a hand, saying he had already been paid. Of course, Erik would think of every detail.

It was odd to enter the Academy through the front door rather than breaking into the side entrance. She had to step through a thick layer of snow on her way up, and once inside the lobby, she shrugged even more flakes from her cloak.

The Academy of Music lacked the extravagant detailing of the Opera Populaire, but the bones of the building were the same. Various small groups of people were milling about, including a single well-dressed man with a thick mustache leaning against a marble column. A young man approached her, and while Christine did not fully understand his English, she managed to understand that he was asking if she was here to sing or dance.

"Sing," she told him in English, and he gestured for her to follow.

They made their way to the back of the theatre, and he showed her to a small dressing room. In the tight corridors and rooms, she had caught sight of other performers - some dressed in stage clothes, one dressed as a ballerina. They must also be auditioning today.

"What is your name?" the man asked before he left.

"Christine Daaé."

He nodded. "We should get started in fifteen minutes. Listen for your name."

"Thank you." She was definitely grateful for all of those English lessons now.

She untied her cloak and removed her gloves, placing both nearby. Hands clenched in her lap, she sat and waited. Nervous laughter and impassioned voices cut through the silence around her. It seemed as though others had brought supportive relatives or friends, and she was the only one here alone. She rubbed the empty spot upon her ring finger.

Then various names were called and she could hear different songs being played upon piano. Sometimes voices rose up, and sometimes she guessed the person was dancing. She focused on relaxing and maintaining her breathing so that her nervousness would not bleed into her voice. Finally, she heard her name being called.

She walked onto the stage much like she had with Erik before, except now the entire space was lit. The auditorium was awash in theatre lights, so she could see who sat there observing her. Two men were in the front row with several piles of paper on their knees. They began to scratch notes as she walked to downstage middle.

The mustached man she had seen earlier had moved to the very back of the theatre. Though he did not sit, as though he might leave at any moment, he was intent upon watching the people auditioning.

She shifted her focus back to the two before her. "My name is Christine Daaé," she said in careful English.

The two men leaned toward each other and murmured, then one of them spoke in fluent French. "You are from France, yes?"

Relieved, she smiled. "I am. I am Swedish-born, but I grew up in France. Thank you, monsieur. My English is not very good."

He waved a dismissive hand. "We will make do. My name is Monsieur Durand, and I am the art director here. This is Monsieur Montresor, our manager. I have here that you sang at the Opera Populaire in Paris." His eyes narrowed. "We have little room for in-fighting here, Madame Daaé."

She felt herself flush. "Mademoiselle, please, and I am only here to sing, messieurs."

"What will you sing for us today?" Montresor asked in English, speaking slowly for her benefit.

"'Salgo già del trono aurato' from Verdi's _Nabucco_."

In the orchestra pit, she saw the pianist dig through his sheet music until he found what he needed. How had the debacle of the Populaire followed her here? She had wanted a fresh beginning, a way to escape the mess of her past, and yet somehow they had heard at least something of what had happened. Perhaps the newspapers in New York had written about the chandelier falling, the accidents and murders, her kidnapping by a masked man upon the stage. Durand had spoken of in-fighting, so maybe they had already painted her as a soprano willing to push aside other divas for a starring role.

The pianist nodded at her that he was ready, but she was trembling. Under the heat of these stage lights, she was wearing too many layers of thick winter clothing. The memories of the past month rushed over her like a suffocating wave, and she struggled to draw a sufficient breath much less begin to sing when the piano struck its first chords.

She heard the notes repeat themselves, and still she could not force her throat to work. She must seem so much of a fool, standing here and taking up their time. The two men shifted in their seats, and Montresor gave an exaggerated sigh.

That was when she heard the whisper in her ear, that dark and lovely voice that melted over her with its calm familiarity.

"Breathe, Christine."

Her eyes spun wildly to the recesses of the auditorium, but she could not see him. He was hidden, but he was _here_. She closed her eyes and tried to center herself. She had faced far worse than this and sang her best anyway. She could do it now.

"In and out, my dear angel," the voice, Erik's voice, continued to murmur, wrapping around her like a mantle. "Yes, just so. This is your moment, my brave songbird. Let them hear you."

She opened her eyes. The pianist struck once more. She took a deep breath.

"Sing, Christine," the voice commanded.

And she did.

* * *

Erik, high upon a catwalk, let the voice of his beloved wash over him. Once she had controlled her anxiety, she had performed as beautifully as he knew she would. The small audience had been as rapt in attention as he, and despite that this was an audition and not a performance, enthusiastic applause had followed.

He was not at all surprised that the manager had asked to speak with her immediately. A smile playing upon his lips, he let her handle her own negotiations and slipped out of the theatre to hail a cab for them both.

The snow was falling steadily now. He needed to see her safely back to the hotel. She took a little longer than he expected, and when she stepped out, he saw her smiling and speaking with another man – one he did not recognize as affiliated with the Academy. The man, not quite middle-aged, had a thick head of hair and an even thicker walrus mustache.

He spoke to Christine in easy French. "Please be in touch, Mademoiselle Daaé. I would love the opportunity to sway you further."

Christine let him bend over her hand. "I will contact you soon, Monsieur Abbey."

"Do you have a ride?"

In response, Erik tapped on the coach for the driver to get down and open the door for her. This attracted Christine's notice, and she nodded. "Good evening, monsieur."

"Good evening," Monsieur Abbey said. "It was a pleasure." He ducked back inside the Academy while Christine made her way to the stagecoach, careful with her steps in the thick snow.

She began to climb inside, and her eyes alighted upon Erik. She hesitated a moment before joining him on the seat, leaving only a little space between them.

"You are well?" she asked as they began to travel. Her eyes flickered to him again, but in the darkness of the cabin, he doubted she could see much.

Her question made him almost want to snarl at her. He was far from _well_.

But instead, he did not answer her. He thought he had made a mistake joining her on the ride back, but he had promised her that he would see her through to the end of her journey here. He would at least uphold his portion of their agreement.

"Who is Monsieur Abbey?" he asked.

Her eyes took on a shimmer to them, but she only squeezed her hands tighter together. "He stopped me in the lobby to speak with me. He said he is to be manager of a new opera house opening next year."

This was not what Erik was expecting. He gave it some thought. "Here in New York?"

"Yes. They are calling it the Metropolitan Opera company. Their theatre is currently being built off of Broadway. He said it is being financed by some of the wealthiest men in New York who are unhappy with being excluded from the Academy of Music."

"Ah, of course," Erik said, leaning back in the carriage. "Such things are always driven by money. No doubt they will each get their own box in the new opera house." This last he stated a bit snidely, but in truth, his interest was piqued. It would be far easier for him to procure his own box in a new theatre than in an older, established one.

"What do you think I should do?"

He tilted his head, considering her. "What do you want to do?"

He was gratified when she took a while to answer, giving her choices much deliberation. Then, she stated, "I would like to explore both options." A touch of a self-satisfied smirk appeared on her lips, but only a little, for Christine was rarely proud of her own achievements even when she had much reason to be so. "Both men offered me a position as prima donna in their next production, although Monsieur Abbey said this was contingent upon his partners hearing me."

"Did they offer you a salary?"

"Monsieur Montresor did." She named a price, and while Erik knew she could negotiate higher, it was a promising start.

"A sufficient amount," he said. Perhaps it was only because he felt the carriage jolt to a halt at their destination that made him add, "Indeed enough to sustain you until your Vicomte arrives."

She cut her eyes at him sharply, any mirth gone. "I burned the letter, Erik, like I should have done immediately after writing it."

"You could so easily craft another." He kept his tone drawl, but his body was all sharp angles inside the cabin, knees jutting out from rangy legs.

"I would not. I have no interest in Raoul. I haven't since the moment I gave him back his ring and left with _you_." The driver of the carriage opened her door for her, letting in a billowing snow, but she leaned out and yanked it closed again, biting out, "We need a moment!"

Erik grimaced at her, mouth twisting cruelly. "Your letter indicated otherwise."

"My letter was written in anger!"

The driver cleared this throat. "Miss, a blizzard is coming. I must insist-"

"I need a moment!" she snapped again. She swung around on Erik. "The night I wrote that letter, we both exchanged words that were unkind, we _both_ felt the pressure of our m-mutual arrangement while we traveled. Yes, perhaps I wished for a second to return to what I thought might have been an easier path, but I quickly realized that part of my life was over forever." Her hands crept toward his, and despite his best judgement, he let her take one of his own in her palms, their gloves preventing closer contact.

She squeezed their entwined fingers, and at once, it was easy for him to tell that she did not wear his ring. In a surge of wrath, he felt her finger for surety, then shoved her hands away just as quickly.

"Yes," he seethed. "Perhaps that part of your life is over, for how easily you swing from one to the next."

Two points of color blossomed high upon her cheekbones, but this was not a blush. She began to almost vibrate with fury. "I do understand this, Erik – I have changed much, learned much about myself, in the past two weeks. I thought perhaps you had as well."

Jaw clenched, he leaned over her and swung open the door to the stagecoach. She stared at him, but she did not cry. Indeed, a snowstorm brewed outside, but she thrust herself into the swirling white without hesitation. He watched her go into the hotel, made certain she was inside before he himself exited the carriage.

Because yes, she had changed in these two weeks, that eternity. At some point, she had grown into a strong, capable woman who easily looked upon him and spoke with absolute certainty. She was unafraid and brilliant and unpredictable.

And, to his despair, he loved her all the more.

* * *

By the time she made it to her hotel room, Christine's temper had cooled to a steeping seethe. She undressed with jerky movements, replaying his words over and over in her mind.

Erik knew just how to cut her deeply, just what to say to hurt her the most. He had more than insinuated that her heart was fickle. Did he truly believe that she would jump at the chance to go back to Raoul? How shallow he must believe her that he thought she could go from one man to the next – and back again – without any qualm.

Sitting at the vanity, she unpinned her hair and began to furiously brush out her locks. At one point, the hairbrush caught painfully in her tresses, and she yanked it free, staring at herself in the mirror. Unshed tears brimmed in her eyes, and her eyebrows were furrowed. Dropping the brush, she pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes, willing the tears away. She was _so done_ weeping over this man.

But then she thought of the way he had gripped her fingers, his thumb feeling the space his ring had inhabited until that afternoon. She had removed it for her audition, not wanting anyone at the theatre to believe she was married when she was, in fact, not. What had Erik thought when he found it gone?

Symbols had always carried strong meaning for Erik. He had spent much of his later life turning himself into the persona of the Phantom, trying to establish control in whatever way he could. She found that this was something she truly admired about him. Even though he had struggled against adversity, he had tried to carve out a space for himself beneath the opera house, had tried to reinvent himself to his own liking.

When he had discovered his ring missing from her finger, had he believed she had rejected _him_?

Scowling, Christine went to the dresser and stared down at his ring in the dish. She could put it back on, but what would be the point?

"You have never asked me, you stupid man," she muttered aloud.

Outside, the wind beat against the window. She peered between the curtains, wishing she could catch a glimpse of him and hoping he had a warm place to sleep. The snow was already a dense, rolling layer upon the deserted street below, smoothing the harsh lines of the city.

Her heart surged with sudden hope. Erik had come to her last night. Maybe he would be unable to stay away again?

She finished dressing for bed, leaving on her embroidered dressing gown over her shift and her thick stockings to combat the nippiness in the room. She turned down the lights until only the glow of the fire was left, climbed into bed, and pulled the blankets to her chin.

Then she waited.

Hours passed. She had forgotten supper, and her stomach complained. However, she knew Erik would not come if he perceived her awake. Her body grew still and complacent in the comfortable bed, and soon her eyelids began to betray her when another hour crept past.

And then the window opened, the chill brushing her cheek for a brief second. Of course he had come in by such an unconventional method, no doubt wanting to avoid anyone in the hotel. She cracked her eyes open to see him standing there, a looming shadow among shadows, and despite her lingering annoyance, she felt a longing pull toward him.

She sat up in bed. The way he froze and rocked back a step told her that he had not expected her to be awake. Their eyes met, his eyes two pin-points beneath the wide brim of his hat, and he moved back toward the window.

She bolted from the bed, blocking his path, and she heard his sharp intake of breath.

"Just wait, please!" she said, reaching for him.

But he recanted, backing towards the door.

"Erik, wait!" Christine grabbed her slippers where she had left them beside the bed. Sitting upon the mattress to tug them on, she watched as he fled out of the hotel room. She had made the mistake of not following him before.

She would not let him leave her again.

 _Insufferable man!_ She gave chase into the hallway, catching a glimpse of his black cloak whipping behind him as he vanished around a corner. He was too fast, making his way on long legs while she scurried to catch up to him. She lost sight of him on the bottom floor, her heart pounding. Would he go out the front lobby? No, hotel staff would still be there. Where had he taken her before… when they had gone to the opera house at midnight?

Her silk slippers were slick upon the stone floor downstairs, but she ran anyway. Finding the back door that they had used before, she slammed it open. Immediately, the cold bit at her underdressed form. The thick snow glowed eerily in the night, but it aided her. Her frantic gaze followed a single set of tracks in the snow on the ground.

She spied him already down the alley, almost the entire length of the building away.

"Erik, stop!" she cried, and she followed. The snow swallowed up her feet, seeping into the tops of her slippers, but she ignored the freezing sting.

At the sound of her voice, Erik swung around. His black-clad form stood out against the snow, his cloak curling around him menacingly. His mask blazed white unapologetically in the darkness. She was unafraid even as he glared at her.

"Go back inside, foolish girl!"

She clutched the front of her dressing gown, teeth already starting to chatter, and walked toward him. "Not until you listen to me."

"There is nothing more to be said."

"There is plenty to be said!" Close enough now to follow if he bolted again, she stopped, ankle-deep in snow. "F-For instance, why have you not kissed me?"

It was his right after all. He had done as he promised – delivering her to New York, helping her earn a position in the opera here. She had promised him a kiss.

His eyes widened. He drew himself up, and she did fear he would run. But he only cut an arm across the darkness, indicating the space between them. "Because the moment I do, _this is over_."

The wind blew her hair around her face, and she shuddered from more than the cold. "Do you really believe I would ask you to leave my life? Just like that?"

"You did before," he spat. With Raoul.

She flinched as though struck. "That is unfair. H-He and I would never have been a good match. My heart knew it, and I only had to gather up the courage to admit to myself. Please, Erik, come back inside with me."

The look he gave her was full of hopelessness. "And then what, Christine?"

She hesitated a second too long, and he half-turned from her. She scrambled to keep him grounded. "We have our music, you and me. We create such beauty together! We can keep on –"

"I do not want you for my muse," he snarled so viciously that she took a step back. "I want you for my _wife_."

There it was, the word she had waited to hear from him. But it was still not a question, not a proposal. Why was it so difficult for him to _ask_ her? Raoul had asked for her to marry him; he had gotten down on one knee and promised her the entire world if she would be his.

But Erik… Erik asked for so much more than her hand in marriage. He wanted everything of herself, heart and body, mind and soul. He wanted to consume her, to merge themselves together as completely as two people could be together. Over the past two weeks, he had shown her what life with him could be like – terrifying and beautiful and glorious.

 _He_ had offered himself to _her_.

And she had only to accept him.

"I cannot do this anymore," he whispered.

She was shaking. "You should not have to. Please, I want you to stay with me. I need you here. I want you here with me."

He turned back to face her, and the look in his eyes almost broke her. "Give me one reason, Christine. I only need one, and I would be yours forever."

Her breath hitched as she drew strength. "I love you."

A guttural cry was wrenched from his throat. Perhaps that was what he had been waiting for all along. He crossed the stretch of distance between them in long strides, cloak fanning about him like the front of a storm, and swept her into a fierce embrace, arms strong as they encircled around her, lifting her to her frozen toes.

His lips were cold as they crashed upon hers, but she had already tilted her face up to receive them. Were those her tears or his? She could not tell as his gloved hands dove into her hair to crush her to him, and he changed the slant of their mouths to deepen their kiss. Their teeth clicked, but she did not care, clutching him to her with the same intensity, devouring him as he devoured her.

Then he swept her into his arms, her slippers almost coming loose in the slushy snow, and carried her inside.


	23. That Moment

**This chapter is a bit shorter than I might normally like, but this needed to stand by itself.**

* * *

 **Chapter 23: That Moment**

Christine wound her arms around his neck, her fingertips grazing the ends of his wig, the starchiness of his collar, the rough embroidery of his cloak. He had tucked that width of black fabric around her shaking body, which helped warm her somewhat, but her toes were still numb, her nose starting to hurt. Her cheek bumped against his mask and the icy porcelain took her breath away.

She wondered if his heart beat as madly as hers did. His arms held her with strong, possessive intent. His scent surrounded her – damp outdoors, fire soot, and a hint of herbal soap. She wanted to envelope herself in _him_ , in his touch and breath and strength, but she sensed that he was still unstable, still unsure. Too much from her might send him bolting again.

Even so, now that she had released those lovely words from her mouth, they came easier now. "I love you, I love you," she murmured, kissing his collar, his cold neck just above his cravat, whatever she could reach of him, even the mask. She wanted his lips again, but he kept his face carefully forward, his strides long and purposeful.

They reached their room, and he shifted enough to open the door and hurry them both inside. After setting her with utmost care on the edge of the bed, he pulled one of the thickest blankets around her shoulders so that she was cocooned forehead to hip. Even though she shivered, she thought perhaps more than just the cold was causing her tremors. A heady energy crackled in the air, kindling awaiting a flame.

She watched as he strode to the fire and stoked it fully awake, casting both of them in warmth and flickering light.

When he turned back around, her eyes swept over him. He looked utterly the same as he had that night he had appeared inside her mirror. He filled the empty space in the room, his very presence almost overwhelming, a towering dark shape of a man in hat and mask that sent her heart racing. She felt a strange, heady anticipation, as though a storm was coming, but she felt no dread. If anything, his own dark brown eyes, when they alighted once again upon her, glimmered with a flash of his own fearful desperation.

"You are still shivering," he intoned.

"My feet," she admitted.

She lifted one of her legs to tug off her slipper, but Erik was quicker, swooping in to kneel beside the bed. He removed each of her slippers, then pulled off his own gloves with a flash of white teeth so he could feel her frozen toes with his bare fingers. Those long, pale digits were still cool, but his touch felt good on her numb skin.

"Your stockings are damp," he murmured. "That was a fool thing you did, going out into a snowstorm."

She gave a soft laugh, but any reply she might have had was choked back as his fingers drifted higher to just above her knee.

"May I?" he asked, eyes fierce and intent upon her face.

She swallowed and nodded her consent. At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to feel his skin upon her own. He was a drug she had only begun to experience; too much, and she might never want to resurface again.

His fingers tugged loose the ties that held up her stockings. She could not help the shiver that ran across her as his blunt nails lightly grazed her knee and then her calf, each stocking being peeled from her skin with agonizing precision and care. She did not miss that he lingered for a moment too long on the delicate bones of her ankles, his expression rapt.

Once her legs were bare, he cleared his throat and returned his attention to her toes, examining each with a light touch that tickled. She squirmed a bit under his scrutiny; she had spent years as a ballerina, after all. But he only pressed a kiss to one of her shins in a quick shock of chilly lips and rose to his feet.

"No signs of frostbite," he said, "but they are still too cold." He strode into the bathroom and filled a basin with warm water, returning to his kneeling position to bathe her feet with a soft cloth. The water felt heavenly. Slowly, more feeling came back to her toes, and he applied a gentle massage to help move the blood.

Such tenderness from Erik brought new tears to her eyes, but she worried about how focused he was on taking care of her. He was still dressed in hat and cloak as though he might leave at any moment… as though she might still give him reason to flee.

"Erik," she said softly. "Is something the matter?"

Not lifting his head, he spoke, voice low and hard. "Moments ago, when we were outside, I said things I never should have said to you, words I used to deliberately hurt you. I did the same when we were in the carriage together this evening."

She could not stand not being able to see his face. Reaching down, she removed his hat, and she was startled to see the sheen to his own eyes and the anger that twisted the uncovered half of his face. Anger aimed at himself.

"I do not believe these things," he continued. "I could never believe them about you. You have the truest heart of anyone I have ever known, a pure heart that you have used to spread nothing but honesty and kindness to everyone you meet."

A flush heated her cheeks, but she stayed silent, wanting him to speak his fill.

He fisted the cloth in his hand. "But I said these hurtful words anyway, and I hated myself for it. Although I have no right to ask for forgiveness, I do want to tell you how sorry I am."

She cupped his chin, and he allowed her to tilt his face upward. Her thumb grazed the bottom swell of his lip, shifting from the thin set of his mouth on one side to the plump fullness that disappeared beneath his mask on the other. "I understand why you did, Erik."

They had both tried to protect themselves.

She was certain her blush deepened, but she could stand being apart from him no longer. "Would you kiss me again like you did outside?"

"A kiss, Christine?" he said, rocking back on his heels. "You… do not know what you ask of me."

She was fairly certain she did. "I suppose that other kiss was the one you were owed. Now I want another."

"If I do so, I fear I will not be able to stop myself." He still clutched the washcloth, but now his other hand crept up to grasp the hem of her dressing gown. She considered this, then let her knees fall apart in such a minute way that she knew only he would notice. And _oh_ , by the flare of his nostril, he did.

"I do not want you to stop," she said simply.

She settled a hand on either of his arms, feeling his quivering frame, his bunched muscles. She felt wild and free. If she wanted the man on his knees before her as much as she believed he wanted her, then by God, she would have him.

"No," he said, shaking his head, "I mean, I will _not be able to stop._ I cannot be pushed right now, Christine, not after you have said such sweet words to me. Do not test me in this!"

In answer, she nudged aside the basin of water with her foot and slid from the side of the bed. Taking hold of her skirts, she lifted them out of the way so she could perch atop his lap, knees to either side of his sharp hips. His cloak pooled around them on the floor. He seemed frozen in shock. Curling her arms around his neck, she kissed the corner of his mouth.

"I told you," she said against his lips, "I do not want you to stop."

* * *

Oh, to feel the warmth of her body despite so many layers between them! Her slight weight pressed upon him, around him, and her warm breath panted upon his mouth. Erik could do nothing but continue to kneel frozen beneath her, his mind scrambling to process her current actions.

She was real, and she was here, and she wanted _him_.

Too many sensations overloaded his senses. Her tongue flicked the seam of his lips, trying to coax him into a kiss. Her nails scraped pleasantly along the base of his skull. The pressure of her hips was exquisite, and she tentatively rocked herself against him.

Finally, he could take no more without responding. His fingers quested and found her bare ankle tucked against his outer thigh. He followed that smooth line of skin to the leg of her undergarments, and he quivered when she caught that hand and encouraged it higher. He snaked one hand under her shift to grasp at the soft linen of her drawers, while his other entangled in her hair, yanking her mouth to his for a true kiss.

He had warned her, and still she sought this from him. He growled against her lips and heard her answering whimper, her hands pulling him even closer as though trying to meld their bodies together. His hand quested higher, feeling the shape of her thigh and ample curve of her backside through her drawers. He wanted these off as much as he needed his next breath.

When his fingers drifted higher, he skated the bandage tied around her waist. With a snap, he moved to remove his hand, remembering that she was injured, but she latched onto his wrist through the layers of her clothing, not letting him free.

"Please," she said, teeth grazing along his jaw. "I am fine. I promise."

Needing to trust her, he returned to exploring the exquisite shape of her again. However, the way she was writhing upon his lap made him eager for nothing between her and his hands. He could have pulled both her gown and her shift above her head, baring the feast of her body to his eyes, but she was still too chilled from their excursion outside to be so uncovered.

Instead, his hand wedged between their bellies to find the tie of her drawers, and his lips sucked down her answering "Yes, please" that boiled his very veins with liquid heat. Little held her undergarment together now, and he was able to split the seam with one yank.

Gods, to cup that supple, tender flesh in his palms. He let go of her silky tresses to plunge both hands under her gown and chemise and do just that, and dear gods, she _pushed_ herself into his touch, wanting more of him. _Here_ , she was warm and soft and filling his hands with such perfection that he thrust up against her before he knew what he was doing. She responded by matching his movement with her own.

She managed to untie his cloak and shove the fabric from his shoulders, but that was as far as she succeeded before he wound an arm around her from behind to find the heat he sought between her thighs. She was already slick against his finger, and heaven help him, he shifted his own knees apart to drive her further open, spreading her to his perusal.

"Erik, oh, Erik," she panted, pressing herself against the line of his chest and belly. His own growing hardness was trapped between their bodies, and she seemed to notice this, grinding against him with wanton boldness.

Something told him to slow down, to make this easier for her, but she was already fumbling with the front of his pants, her teeth deliciously scraping his bottom lip. Surging upward, he brought them both upon the bed, her thighs spread wide to already accommodate him between them. Her heels dug into him to bring him closer, her hips seeking more friction.

"Please, I need you!" she gasped, and perhaps he had never heard anything so magnificent in his entire life.

He plundered her mouth again, pushing his tongue against her lips until she admitted him, and oh, she tasted of sunshine, of summer heat, of spun sugar. He fed upon her answering moan as he batted her hands away, thumbing open his trousers and then his drawers, but she was the one who drew him out with a pleased sigh.

Groaning, he ground into her palm as his hand sought that damp warmth between her legs once again. Her hips undulated in welcome, and he sank one finger inside her, his thumb finding the nub he knew would bring her pleasure. Her soft keens encouraged him to add a second finger, a tighter fit that still slid within easily.

She gripped him firmly and with building confidence, her own hand exploring, finding the moisture that beaded at the tip and spreading it with her fingertips until he shuddered. She had memorized what he liked, and she used that knowledge against him now, tightening her hand upon the base and giving a twist upon the pinnacle.

He could wait no longer. He wanted to plunge himself inside this tight heat, feel her envelop him until her flames consumed him. He sought her mouth, teasing her tongue with his own, as he lifted himself enough to prod at her slick folds. She parted for him, angling her own hips to meet him, and overwhelmed by the heat and wetness, he sank himself deep inside her.

She cried out, stiffening beneath him. He was at once aware of how much of his weight crushed upon her slight form, the way her fingers had turned to claws and dug into his shoulders, the quivering in her graceful thighs. Shifting upon his elbows, he kissed the tears that pooled in the corners of her eyes, holding as still as he could despite the rising need to drive himself into her again.

"Oh, my dearest, my love," he murmured, unsure what to do besides continue to kiss her face and neck.

Her eyes cracked open, meeting his, and she smiled, oh she _smiled_ at him through the pain. "Touch me?" she asked. "Please?"

Anything, he could do anything for her. He pressed soft kisses to her neck, to the rapid pulse in that white column. One of his hands stole under her shift and crept up her ribs to mold her breast to his palm, and slowly, she began to relax, drawing in steady breaths to stabilize herself. He was in awe of her.

His fingers caught her nipple and pinched it delicately, and he was fascinated by the way that peak pebbled under his attention. Without drawing out, he canted his hips against hers, testing out a grinding motion that he thought she might like. Her answering gasps of delight bolstered his confidence. Soon, she was writhing under him, and he had to move, could not hold still.

He slid partly free of her welcoming heat, wincing at her hiss of pain, and delved himself within her again, continuing to seek her own satisfaction with lips and fingers as his own rapidly built. His Christine clenched around him so deliciously, her cries panted in his ear, and he struggled to keep control, fought to maintain this slow pace. Unsteadily, he withdrew and plunged in again, and gradually, her cries became more breathless, her hands caressing his neck and unmarred face.

The pressure low between his thighs built and built, her tightness too much for him to bear. For a moment, he heard nothing more than the sound of his hips slapping against hers. He found her mouth and the whisper of his name on her lips pushed him over the edge. He sank into her one last time, spending his release with a breathy moan, his entire body tightening in spasms.

Oh, his Christine, his angel. He kissed words of love across her skin even as he was unable to hold himself up, collapsing, trembling to one side of her. His clothes felt too warm and sticky against his body, and that was when he realized he was still fully dressed. He had not even removed his tailcoat and shoes. He had taken his love too quickly when he should have taken his _time_ with her, seeing to her needs before his own. Had she even found her own culmination?

He eased out of her, horrified by the flinch that flashed across her face. Shame hit him hard. An apology rose up within him. But he swallowed it down when Christine turned toward him with a sigh and curled into his chest.

He stroked her cheek with unsteady fingers. "Are you all right, my love?"

She raised her face to look at him, and he was amazed by the touch of a smile upon her kiss-swollen lips. "I am. It… is only supposed to hurt the first time, right?"

"So I have, ah, read."

Her eyes brightened, and there was that lovely pink color to her cheeks once again. "I should like to find out."

She wanted…

With a rough laugh, he pulled her into his arms.

* * *

Christine ached, but it was a pleasant sort of sting, the type of soreness that carried meaning behind it. She had known it would hurt, had been warned enough to understand that much. Toward the end, she had felt something akin to pleasure, the uncomfortable pressure and drag of skin on tender skin easing just before he stopped.

She wanted to commit this moment to memory, their shared first experience. His body had shuddered above hers, his hips driving her into the mattress again and again with a beautiful strength that made her feel almost delirious. For a brief second, he had been vulnerable above her, and she had held him as he came back down to himself. Afterward, she had delighted in the way he folded her against him.

They laid side by side for a while until he gave her a tender kiss and sat up. He began to shrug out of his tailcoat, and she was on her knees as well, helping him undress. She unbuttoned his waistcoat as he tugged free his bowtie. This seemed strangely intimate, an odd thought.

"Do you need anything?" he asked, caressing her cheek.

"You, holding me," she replied, smiling.

The side of his mouth curled upward. "Such easy requests." He set his clothes on a nearby divan, toed off his shoes, and rejoined her. Even though he still wore a shirt and his trousers, she said nothing about it, wanting him to be comfortable around her.

However, the mask had to go. When he returned, she stopped him, reaching up to cup that unforgiving porcelain. There was so much she could have said, but that was enough. He blew out a breath and removed the mask along with his wig himself, setting them on the nightstand. Instead of staring, she divested herself of her dressing gown and crawled beneath the blankets, pulling down his corner.

He slid in next to her. "Let me check your wound." Not a question.

Shyness rose up within her, which was silly considering the act they had just committed. But he only pulled up the side of her chemise to look under her bandage.

"You have done well taking care of it." He laid back down, his long fingers splaying across her back and playing with the ends of her hair, making her shudder. "I should have been here."

"No matter now."

The fire was dying low again, easing them into near darkness. Outside seemed so still and quiet, muffled by the snow still falling. She was content to listen to his heart, and he did not protest when she undid the top buttons of his shirt so she could press her fingertips to his cooling skin.

"You need a house," he said, his rumbling voice pulling her from her near-sleep.

"Hmm?"

He continued to speak quietly, and she loved the vibration within his chest. "A hotel is no place to live long-term. You need a house, beloved, a private one with as many rooms as you like."

"I do not need much space," she said, kissing his skin and liking the way his hands spasmed briefly. "I would like a garden, though."

"Harder to find in the city. Perhaps further inland… or near a park?"

"That sounds nice. I would also like a music room with a piano. I would love to watch you play there every evening. And a proper desk for you to write whenever you want." She noticed that he had stiffened next to her, and she lifted her head to see the strange look upon his face. "What is wrong?"

"You want to include a space for me?" His throat bobbed.

She rose up on an elbow. "Of course, Erik. It would be _our_ house after all." Sudden worry made her frown. "We _will_ live together, right?"

Maybe he did not want to share such a simple life with her, aboveground in a regular home. He had lived for so long under the opera house that maybe living aboveground in the sunlight day by day would be too much for him. Could they find somewhere that would better suit them both? Now that she considered it, she realized she would live with him anywhere. The place itself was not important.

She kissed that wedge of skin beneath her hand where his heart beat frantically. "I do not care where we live Erik, as long as we are together."

Fingers trembling, he placed his hand upon hers, pressing her closer to his heart. "In marriage, Christine?" he managed to say.

Was that his question? A laugh bubbled up within her. She would take it.

"Yes, Erik, in marriage."

He swathed her within his tremulous arms in a crushing embrace. His mouth sought hers, and she tasted the saltiness of his tears upon his flesh. She smoothed the dampness away with velvety caresses and plying lips. Yes, she would marry this man, and together, they would start their lives anew.

* * *

 **If things go according to plan (and they don't always), there are two chapters left and an epilogue.**


	24. Ceremony

**Ah, so long since I last published! The past couple of weeks have been tough for multiple reasons, but we can now see the end in sight.**

 **If you want updates, and random fic infobits (such as a pic of the dress Christine wears in this chapter), follow me on Tumblr: i-am-melancholys-child.  
**

* * *

 **Chapter 24: Ceremony**

The first thing Christine noticed upon waking was the sensation of warmth.

An arm was draped across her hip, heavy in its relaxation, the other tucked under her pillow. Her cheek lay against a smooth triangle of flesh exposed from his unbuttoned shirt, and his heart pulsed steadily and slowly in her ear. His warm breath tickled the crown of her head.

She opened her eyes and pulled back within his arms to gaze up at him. The man was indeed asleep, the first time she had ever woken to find him so. He had not even stirred when she shifted.

Christine took the opportunity to study his face, his deformity mostly hidden against the pillow. His strong brow was smooth and relaxed in sleep, two lines creasing between the eyebrows from a lifetime spent frowning. She hoped to encourage more of the faint lines she saw at the corners of his eyes instead.

His mouth was similarly undisturbed, lips slightly parted. Did she now have free reign on kisses? She intended to find out.

She pressed her mouth against that malleable, soft flesh, and she felt his arms convulse and then draw her closer. His lips parted further and deepened the kiss to a level not quite respectable for the morning. She did not mind, gripping the back of his shirt in welcome. His fingers delved into her hair, pleasantly tugging at her scalp.

Pulling back, she murmured, "So sure you are of who is in your bed, monsieur?"

"It could be no one but you," he replied, cracking open an eye to peer down at her. "It has only ever been you."

She flushed at that. In response, she kissed that spot of exposed chest, then dragged her lips along his throat to his jaw, enjoying this new warmth from him; did he always grow so languid in sleep? She would have to encourage the practice from him in order to find out.

A groan vibrated in the throat under her lips, and he was rolling over on top of her, his lanky body heavy but not crushing. One of his legs wedged between hers, the pressure delicious, as he kissed her again and ran splayed fingers down her shoulder to one of her linen-encased breasts. How easily this man could wrench a response from her; already, she was beginning to throb.

However, he removed his hand and buried his bare face into her neck. "I cannot, not so soon after the first time. I fear hurting you, my love."

She shifted. She was indeed sore, but she would not have stopped him.

"Besides." Here he lifted his head to gaze down at her, eyes sparkling in the morning light. "I would rather wait to take you again when you are my wife. You need a proper ceremony and a proper wedding night." He returned to his side next to her, drawing away just enough that neither of them were immediately tempted.

Wedding. They were going to get married. After everything they had been through, including the time he had tried to force her into this same institution, she was going to willingly become his wife.

Because she _loved him_.

"I do not need much ceremony," she said honestly. "We are the only two who will be there, after all."

He brushed a strand of curl from her cheek. "We will need a witness. I want to ensure that we do this correctly, Christine, with all the right paperwork needed. I… have spent my life walking between walls. In this, I want to do right."

"All right," she said, giving him a kiss. "What about Nadir?"

"Ideally, but another month could pass before he arrives." He ran a thumb just under the swell of her bottom lip. "I cannot wait that long to make you mine."

Neither could she, for that matter.

"Besides," Erik added drily, "I am not convinced that he would not try to murder me when he finds out."

She snorted a small laugh. "I will vouch for your honor." After thinking a moment, she suggested Laurent, the steward from the ship. "He adores you, and if we were honest with him, I think he would help us."

"I hesitate to involve him further in our business, Christine. He already knows too much, holds too many of our secrets, for us to also reveal that we were not previously married."

She kissed him again, craving more of him. "Consider him, at least?"

"That I will do." With obvious reluctance, he extradited himself from the bed, joints popping as he stretched. She watched, fascinated. "Although I would love to spend today in bed with you, there is much to prepare."

Christine slid out of the blankets as well, shivering in the chilly air and shrugging into her gown. She peeked between the curtains and gasped with delight. "Oh, Erik!"

Hurrying to her side, he also took in the view. All of the New York was white with snow, which clung to trees and rooftops alike. Few people were out and about, but the telltale tracks in the snow showed some carriages had made the journey.

He frowned. "That will slow us up a bit. All the more reason to get a move on." After stirring alive the fire, he began to change into clean outer clothes, noticeably only removing a single article of clothing at a time. She had seen him mostly unclothed before, but she knew they would have the rest of their lives to become more comfortable around each other.

"Although I may not be able to give you the wedding of your dreams, my dear," he continued, buttoning and straightening his fresh waistcoat, "I can at least ensure you wear a white gown of your choosing. I will have a seamstress sent up as soon as possible. Perhaps something can be fitted by this evening?"

Her eyes grew wide. "Erik, I do not have to have a _wedding_ gown."

"Nonsense," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "A bride should have a gown!"

This was such a touchy subject with him. She knew well how much he clung to the conventions of marriage, but she had already been down this road with him before. Going to his side, she threaded her arms around his waist, hoping the affectionate gesture would soften her next words.

"I have already _done_ the white dress and veil, my love," she said gently. "Twice, I might add. I do not want to wear another." She noticed that glint to his eyes, the tremble in his hands, at the reminder of what he had forced upon her. She pushed aside the remembrance of that time beneath the opera house; they had both been different people then. "I have something that might be appropriate – a gown I purchased with the traveling funds you gave me."

"A veil?" he asked hoarsely.

In this, she would not give. "No." Reaching up, she cupped both sides of his face, thrilled that he had not yet replaced his mask. "I love you, Erik. I want to marry _you_. As long as you are there, that is all that matters to me."

He took her hands in his and pressed his lips to her knuckles with reverence. "Will you at least wear my ring, dearest?"

She gave a bright smile. "Of course."

* * *

New York was indeed a city used to such weather, even at the beginning of spring as it were. Erik had little trouble finding a cab driver who would chauffer him around the city as long as they kept to the main streets, which already had groves in the snow cut by the carriages.

His first objective this morning was to give his ring over to a jeweler. He supposed he should not be spending the money on such an expensive, but if Christine would not allow him to give her a gown and veil, he could at least give her a ring.

His own ring, the one she had worn with its black onyx stone, carried special meaning for him. He hoped in time he would gather enough courage to tell Christine of its origin. For now, it was enough that she wore it. It was the stone itself that was important to him, and he knew the gold band did not fit her delicate finger properly. And so, he found a jewelry maker willing to work upon the ring today, for a price, and place the onyx stone into a different setting.

Afterward, his priority was to find someone willing to marry them on such short notice. He could, of course, throw money at the issue, but the Fifth Avenue Hotel would be draining enough on his relatively meager coinage without him bribing a minister. Christine had been raised Lutheran – most Swedes were – but he knew she was not necessarily a practicing Protestant. Even so, he suspected she would want to marry within a church if she could choose.

The more prominent Lutheran churches snubbed their noses at him, and he supposed the mask did not aid his endeavor. However, the pastor at a smaller church that spoke only German welcomed him. He had heard their organ being played in practice, and he had offered to return to tune it in exchange for proceeding with the marriage ceremony that evening.

He longed to return to Christine, who he knew was spending the day relaxing, and get out of the bright light of day. With the time already drifting past luncheon, Erik had one last errand to run.

When they had parted on the dock, Laurent had given him a card with his address. Erik fished it from his pocket now and read the location to his driver.

"The Lower East Side, sir?" the driver said, stuttering a bit. "Are you certain?"

"I am," he replied with a hint of warning. The man's job was to steer the horse, not to ask questions. Even so, Erik had not missed the hesitation in his voice.

His suspicions were confirmed when the brick and concrete street abruptly ended as the carriage wheels sank into the muddy brown snow of a dirt road. The streets here were not paved, and tenements began to rise on either side – buildings five and six stories high crammed into tight spaces with barely a breath between them. Even the thick snow did little to hide the trash piled high in corners.

Erik was no stranger to slums, had spent most of his life entering or leaving them, but usually he made effort to blend in with such a crowd. Dressed as he was in his usual finery, and with his white mask, he would attract unwanted attention.

However, if Laurent lived in such a place, Erik intended to discover why.

The horse slowed with a whinny, white whirls steaming from its mouth in the frigid air. Erik peered out of the carriage at a building that looked much like the others on this row – tall, nondescript, with small windows. He would have to travel in rather enclosed stairwells to reach Laurent's address, with the only way of escape the front windows or the roof.

"I will need you to wait," he told the driver.

"I'm likely to get robbed," the man whined.

Exiting the carriage, Erik tossed a small bag of coin at the man. "You _will_ wait."

He stepped onto an unshoveled sidewalk, ignoring the unpleasant seeping of cold snow into the tops of his boots. The front door of the tenement had to be shoved open, and he found a man passed out drunk behind it. The place was mostly filled with women and children, and he did his best to breathe shallowly against the various smells that assailed him. Air had little way to escape with such few windows, and there was clearly not ample sewage management.

Still, Erik had seen far worse in his time, and he made his way swiftly up the stairwell, keeping his hat pulled low over his mask. He found the correct door and knocked loudly.

No answer. He knocked again.

He supposed the man could simply be out; it _was_ the middle of the day. A quick look at the place might give him a hint of Laurent's location, and so he tested the handle and found it open.

"Monsieur Laurent?" he called, projecting his voice into the room beyond.

Shoes scuffing across the wood floor in another room answered. Erik entered, quickly closing the door behind him.

"I am looking for Monsieur Laurent," he said, in French.

This time, he got a reply. It was most definitely Laurent, speaking to him in heavily-accented English and sounding harsher than Erik had ever heard him.

"Ah, they send someone who speaks my language this time! No doubt _that_ is why I haven't paid the rest of Benoit's debt, no?"

Feet stomping in annoyance, Laurent entered the room, looking more disheveled than his usual careful and pristine appearance as the steward Erik had known. A half-empty bottle of liquor hung from one of his hands. He drew up short when he saw Erik standing by the door.

"M-Monsieur Daaé!" He blinked. "You… changed your mask."

Erik gave him a measured once-over. "This is not how I expected to find you: debt-ridden and half drunk."

Laurent held up the bottle, disgust plain on his young face. "Not mine, I assure you. I have been cleaning out my cousin's room." He gestured at the small wooden table nearby with two chairs. "Please, sit, monsieur. Your visit is unexpected but not unwelcome."

Erik would rather stand, but he could sense the steward's discomfort and… embarrassment. "What are you doing in such squalor, Laurent? The money I gave you was enough for a finer home than this, at least temporarily."

"This was my cousin Benoit's home," Laurent said, sitting heavily across from him.

"Was?"

"He died a few weeks ago from a fever. I was traveling too much for anyone to send me word until I arrived." He shoved fingers into his eyes as though stemming a surge of emotion.

Erik stayed quiet, giving the man time to compose himself.

"Forgive me, monsieur. Benoit was my last remaining relative. I had hoped to get us both out of here, but I was too late." He sighed, glaring at the liquor bottle with red-rimmed eyes. "I did not realize he was so much of a drinker. Nor a gambler. Most of the money is now gone, and still his debt-collectors come."

Laurent had tried to pay off his cousin's debt, had tried his best to carve out a decent and respectable living for himself. Erik knew Christine would never forgive him if he simply walked away from this. He found he did not want to.

"The scalpers will hound you until you leave," he told the young man.

"I have nowhere else to go." Laurent's eyes widened. "Truly, I have paid them all I have. I had hoped to find a job at one of these upscale restaurants in the heart of the city, but I can't escape Benoit's debt. They have threatened to put me in jail."

Erik waved a gloved hand dismissively. "Escape is always possible, my good sir, especially if you know the right people. I have need of your help, if you are willing to aid me. I can pay, if that is what you need." He tilted his head to the side, considering. "I am also willing to offer you a position longer term."

Laurent must truly be tired and in desperate spirits, for Erik thought the young Frenchman might dissolve into tears right then. But Laurent kept his eyes steady this time, his spine straightening. Erik might have smiled, if that had been in his nature, at the maturity Laurent was showing. A harder life often bred a stronger spirit, and Erik now understood much of Laurent's character after seeing his circumstances.

"What do you need, monsieur?" Laurent asked.

Erik leaned forward ever so slightly, not to intimidate though he presumed he might have that effect. "You have kept secrets for me before. I do not… enjoy being indebted to others, so if you are willing to take another upon yourself, I would hire you as my head of household. You have certainly proved yourself capable in the past." He tapped his fingers upon the table. "It would be far from a restaurateur job, but I suppose that could come in the future."

To his surprise, Laurent did not ask questions, only extended his own hand. "I would be honored to run your house, monsieur."

"Should you not ask what secret I want you to keep?" Erik asked wryly.

Laurent grinned, the first humor Erik had seen from him that day. He was beginning to seem more like the composed steward from the ship. "I know you are the Opera Ghost from Paris, and as such, Daaé is likely not even your name. I know you are wanted for murder, but I also know that Christine loves you very much. She would not have given you her heart if you were not more than the Ghost that terrorized the Populaire."

He had not dropped his hand, and now he extended it further until Erik finally took it. The young man's grip was firm and without hesitation. When they parted, Erik swept to his feet, cloak swirling about his legs.

"How much time do you need to pack?"

"I never _un_ packed, monsieur. I am ready."

Nodding, Erik strode to the door. "Then change into your best clothes, and let us be off."

"My best clothes?" Laurent raised an eyebrow.

"Indeed, my good man." Erik paused, lips curling. "That woman who gave me her heart? Today, I marry her."

Erik was pleased with how easily Laurent slipped back into the role of manager. They dragged his meager trunk to the awaiting carriage, and immediately, Laurent took over directing the driver to the errands they needed to complete first.

By the time Erik traveled back to the Park Avenue Hotel, ring in hand, his body felt light, his steps through the servants' entrance quick and easy. He had told Christine to eat lunch without him, his flip-flopping stomach in no mood for food, as well as to be dressed by five o'clock. He gave Laurent leave to eat or relax in the lounge of the hotel until they were ready.

He entered their room, and Christine sat at the vanity, arms raised as she pinned her hair. She wore only her underclothes and petticoats, her corset tied loosely. Spying him in the mirror, she did not shy away from him even though she was underdressed; instead, she smiled and finished placing the pin.

"There you are. I know you said to be ready by five, but I have to admit that this gown is more difficult to put on than I imagined."

Needing to change himself, he swept off his hat and cloak and moved to her side. "May I help?"

"Please." She stood, and he allowed his eyes one rake down her body before focusing on the task at hand. "My corset needs tightening."

She turned around and presented her laces, but he hesitated. "Your injury."

"I am fine," she said, clicking her tongue at him.

His lips thinned, but he did as she asked, tugging on the laces until she was satisfied with the rigidity. Next came the bustle, a rather silly-seeming contraption, and then her overskirt, which involved quite some management in straightening the layers of red and gold silk. Finally, the bodice went atop everything else, fastening with a rather clever set of clasps and buttons. Although the bodice covered her down to her forearms, the square neckline revealed the barest hint of creamy flesh rising and falling with her every breath.

"A vision in red," he murmured, earning a flush from her.

She smoothed out invisible wrinkles. "Not exactly a wedding dress, but I thought it… suited."

Indeed, it did. He would have been content to drink in the sight of her were he not about to make her his. "Give me a moment, and we shall go," he said.

His own clothes paled in comparison, his suits mostly all the same. He did choose a champagne-colored waistcoat to compliment the gold in her dress, instead of his usual black. Making sure the ring was still safely inside his waistcoat pocket, he replaced his hat and mask, and stretched out a hand to her, beckoning.

"Ready."

* * *

Christine might have squealed, just a little when she saw Auguste Laurent standing just outside the carriage. If the sidewalk outside the hotel had not been so slick, she would have dashed to him. As it was, she threw her arms around the steward as soon as she was close enough.

"He found you!" she cried, hugging him tightly. "I am so glad to see you, Auguste."

He seemed… tired, somewhat, but nonetheless, he gave her a smile. "And you, mademoiselle."

She picked up on his chosen address. So, Erik _had_ already filled him in with the truth. At least the ride over to the church would be less awkward now. The two men climbed into the stagecoach after her, both of them sitting on the bench across from her. She much would have rather Erik had sat next to her, as he usually did, so she could hold his hand, but she understood his need for distance at that moment.

"Please, call me Christine," she pouted. "I did already ask this of you."

"Laurent has accepted a position as our house steward," Erik said, explaining the formality. His dark eyes were steadily holding hers, and she easily read the statement beneath his words. There was a story for him to tell her, but it was something that could wait.

"Well, then welcome to the family, Auguste. Even so, I prefer Christine, at least when it is only us."

"I can accept that," Laurent agreed, chuckling.

Parts of New York were still covered in white snow, but the afternoon had melted much of it. The busy city traffic had cut furrows into the rest, and Christine was disappointed she had not been able to enjoy the snow while it had lasted. Still, they were settling here, were they not? She guessed she would have plenty more winters to experience, and with Erik by her side.

Erik's attention remained focused upon her for the duration of the ride, his eyes glittering in the dimmer light of the enclosed space. She felt her face heat from the promise of that gaze, and even though her gown and cloak left nothing to his perusal, she still felt underdressed. Her thoughts flashed to the moment they had shared last night, and she was certain her blush deepened against her will.

Perhaps what he did not know was that she longed for him as much as he did for her.

Had they been alone in the cabin, she might have shown him.

Her saving grace was a short ride. They pulled up to the church, a small Lutheran establishment with a round stained-glass window upon the front. She appreciated Erik adherence to the faith of her childhood; she thought Papa would have approved.

She and Laurent followed Erik inside, both men removing their hats immediately. The parlor inside was empty, but an older man soon appeared, smiling kindly at all of them. He spoke in slow, easy German, which Erik translated softly when needed.

"This way, my dear," Erik said, gesturing. "He wishes to speak with you alone."

Nodding, she and the pastor entered a small side room. The old man clasped his arms behind his back, gazing at her from beneath bushy white eyebrows. She could tell he kept his words as simple as he could, and in any case, she had been expecting his questions. Mostly by nodding, she assured him she was there of her own free will.

Smiling, the pastor then indicated that she should come with him. Erik and Auguste waited at the far end of the main sanctuary, near the pulpit. Her heart began to pound when Erik noticed her walking down the aisle. Even though this was without preamble, without much fancy fanfare, she was still about to _marry him_.

She made it down the aisle to stand in front of him, turning so they faced. For some reason, she was comforted by the obvious fact that Erik was as nervous as she; he shifted from one foot to the next, his lithe fingers coming up to adjust the bowtie at his bobbing throat.

Had it really only been a few weeks ago that she had stood in a similar position? Only weeks ago that he had smashed a wedding veil upon her head and _demanded_ that she marry him or else send Raoul to his death?

Truly, she had been terrified, but more than that, she had been angry. For years, she had thought the Angel of Music was her maestro, her protector, her confident. She had revealed thoughts and feelings that she had never shared with anyone, and in time, she had even considered him her friend. But in a matter of such a fleeting time, any trust built between them had fallen apart.

His rage at her for taking off his mask had shocked her but been understandable. However, when he had thrown his fire tricks at her and Raoul _at her father's gravesite_ … Her anger at his treatment of her, at how quickly he had changed his demeanor, began to simmer to a boil from that moment onward.

 _"Make your choice."_

He had spoken those words so calmly, tossing the veil in a hated heap before her. He had just killed once again, this time someone who had always treated her with something like kindness, and she witnessed the coldness inside of him that could allow for such evil action.

Yet she had not missed the look in his eyes. The utter despair. He had given her two choices, both of which would ruin her life, and yet neither were what he himself had wanted.

He had wanted her companionship, not her enslavement.

And so, she had given him a way out, forced him to see that compassion in this world still existed. By pressing her lips to his, she had helped him become a man once again.

Now, that man stood before her, hat clutched in both of his bony hands, looking at once both lost and found, eager and hesitant, pleased to be here and ready to flee.

This time, she had made the choice herself to come to this city, to bargain for his help, to audition in a new opera house, to seek her own way out. She had born witness to his attempts to _do better_ , and while he was likely to never be kind or amusing or ordinary, she caught glimpses of the person he might have been had his life followed a different path.

Still, their lives had converged at this point, and she was ready at last to merge them. She smiled as the pastor indicated that they each give him one of their hands, and Erik passed his hat to Auguste. As the pastor began to speak in German, Erik translated, voice soft.

"There is matrimony when a man and a woman decide, with one mind and one purpose, to become one entity in holy sacrament. In doing so, you forsake all others and devote your lives to each other and each other's happiness. In doing so, you promise to love each other until parted by death, and to remain faithful to each other in all ways."

The pastor took both of their hands and laid Christine's in Erik's larger palm, gently folding their fingers so that their hands were clasped. The cool, familiar grasp of Erik's fingers brought her into sharp focus.

"Erik, do you desire Christine as your wedded wife?"

Brown eyes were aglow with warmth as they gazed down at her. "Yes," he said, the word momentous.

The pastor turned to her. "Christine, do you desire Erik as your wedded husband?"

Except it was not this old man of God reciting those words, was it? Erik translated the German for her, and his voice – that beautiful, dangerous voice – broke on the last word. His hand, wrapped around hers, trembled.

 _"Say you want me with you, here beside you."_

She did, oh she did.

"Yes."

The pastor asked a question of Erik, who dug into his waistcoat pocket with his free hand. From it, he produced a ring, offering it to Christine who lifted her finger to receive it. In the center of the ring was a black stone – the same as his other ring? Small diamonds encircled the oval onyx, and the golden band was daintier, fitted for her finger rather than his.

She wanted to speak with him about the ring, about why he had chosen to keep the stone, which must be special to him, but the pastor was speaking again, cupping their hands with his own rougher ones.

The man bent his head and murmured over the union of their hands. Erik did not translate, but the words were familiar enough to Christine to know he was quoting scripture. Erik's eyes swam with emotion, and the sight was almost too much for Christine to bear without looking away. She saw their future in that dark gaze, and when the old man finished his prayer, she whispered, "Amen" along with him.

"What God has joined together, let man not put asunder," Erik said, translating the pastor's words.

The old man stepped back from them, smiling and gesturing. Christine tilted her face up, and Erik obliged, taking a step forward to press a quick, chaste kiss upon her lips, his own cool and dry and full of promise.

" _Danke sehr,_ " she told the pastor, thanking him. She felt almost light-headed.

They filled out the necessary paperwork, recording the marriage to make it official in the eyes of the American courts. She glanced at the document as she herself signed, and she was startled by the names she saw there. Specifically, but the surnames penned in Erik's scrawl.

He noticed immediately what she had seen and took her elbow to turn her away. "I will explain tonight," he promised, throwing his voice in her ear while Auguste and the pastor exchanged pleasantries.

Yes, he would, and she realized they had all the time they needed to learn about each other. She was his in every way, and he was hers, and despite the institution of marriage that still afforded more rights upon the man than the woman, he had just agreed to publicly share something of hers that was very precious indeed.

Her heart blossomed, and she felt as though it was overflowing with a warm sort of joy, a peacefulness that had been absent for a while.

The short ceremony was over, and she could finally _breathe_.

They left the church, and Auguste told them where he would be staying – a hotel not too far from their own, at least for a while. Christine was still curious as to what had transpired between the two men, but she could see that Erik was already spinning with ideas of the apartment they might purchase soon. Even though the Park Avenue hotel was opulent, she was ready for them to have their own space.

Laurent gave her a tight hug, grinning. "I will wait a few days before contacting you again, yes? In the meantime, monsieur, I will see about compiling a list of apartments that meet the specifications you gave me."

Erik dipped his hat, and Christine waved as Auguste headed out of sight in his own cab before they rolled off in their own. When the stagecoach lurched forward, and they were within the privacy of the carriage, Erik took her right hand, pressing his lips to her gloved fingers.

"Dearest love, I can scarcely believe-" He cut himself off, cupping his bare cheek with her hand. She sucked in a breath at the tears that began to pour down his cheekbone, dampening her glove.

"Erik, are you all right?" She scooted closer until their knees touched.

"Oh, more than, my love. I am more than all right."

Happy tears, then. She pulled out her handkerchief and patted the skin under his eye until it was dry. Then, because they were alone, she – slowly in case he wanted to stop her – lifted up his mask so that she might gently dab at the wetness there as well.

"There now," she said softly, cupping his cheek again. "I love you, you know."

Those dark eyes widened. "And I love you," he managed to reply before she was pulling him down for a proper kiss, the one she had wanted in the church. His lips were now slightly moist and parted in surprise, giving her quick access to tentatively prod at his tongue with her own. He made a choked little noise and curved his long fingers around the nape of her neck so that he could deepen the kiss in such a way that left them both breathless.

She had never been so grateful for a short carriage ride, unable to contain the wide split of her smile when they stopped in front of the hotel. The driver opened her door, and she gave Erik's fingers a squeeze before stepping down by herself. She knew he did not like to go in through the front with his more noticeable white mask.

"Meet you upstairs," she said, her words laced with intent, and the flash of desire in his eyes made her quicken her steps into the hotel.

Dinner was likely in full sway, and the lobby and adjoining rooms were full of people conversing with pre-dinner drinks. She made her way toward the nearest staircase, but shouts made her pause.

Two men were arguing just outside the men's smoking lounge. She recognized them both. Monsieur Durand, face red with anger, was the shorter and rounder of the two, and the art director of the Academy of Music. The other man named Abbey, smirking under his thick mustache, was the one who had told her about the new Metropolitan Opera company he was starting.

In the few moments she paused there, she heard that they were arguing about _her_.

She really had no want to speak to either of them, but she turned to go too late.

"Mademoiselle Daaé!"

* * *

 **One chapter and an epilogue left to go.**


	25. Finale

**This is the final chapter, with an epilogue to follow!**

* * *

 **Chapter 25: Finale**

"Mademoiselle Daaé!"

Christine cringed when she heard Durand's voice shout over the others in the crowded parlor. People nearest them hushed and craned their necks to nose their way into the sudden commotion. Calling attention to herself was the last thing she wanted right now; she wanted nothing more than to slip upstairs and into Erik's arms.

Unfortunately, both men rushed over to her, but at least they were no longer yelling.

"Mademoiselle Daaé," Durand, art director of the Academy, said as he puffed up a bit out of breath. "I have been searching the better part of the day to find you. Thank God I have."

Abbey pulled up behind him, mustache twisting in a smile. "How nice to see you again," he said to her, tapping his hat. "Edmund here has been creating quite a fuss."

Durand sputtered, whirling on the other man. "Only because you are trying to steal my discovery away from me! I heard that you have invited Mademoiselle Daaé to become prima donna at your little adventure you call an opera house."

"Not quite," Abbey said easily, still speaking to Christine. "I would, however, like you to come sing for my business partners. I am sure they will sign you immediately."

"At the Metropolitan Opera house?" she asked to clarify.

"There is no such thing!" Durand spat.

"There will be by the beginning of next year," Abbey said. "We have a building and a stage-"

"But no seats!"

" _Yet_. Mademoiselle Daaé, I haven't been able to stop hearing your lovely voice within my head. I know this is rushed and rude of me to show up at your hotel door, but if you would come sing for us, I assure you I can make it worth your troubles."

While Durand's mouth flapped open like a fish's, Christine considered this. "When?"

"Immediately," Abbey said, "if you would. Many of our stakeholders are already gathered there to discuss the construction's current progress."

Christine withheld a sigh. She could never have dreamed that her prospects would turn out so well here in New York with not one but _two_ opera companies wanting her to join them. Erik himself had once told her that the Academy had its own list of problems, and she knew what joining an uncompleted opera house could mean for Erik. If he so desired, he could mold this Metropolitan opera for his own purposes the way he had the Populaire – not necessarily to haunt it, but to have the opportunity to shape its secret passages, and its musical talent, the way he liked.

"She came to sing for me first," Durand said, still red in the face. "I will not have you steal her away!"

"Come now, Edmund," Abbey laughed. "I cannot steal her. She _is_ a human being, after all, and a most talented one at that." Here he winked at her. "What do you say, Mademoiselle Daaé? Would you show my compatriots what you have to offer?"

Christine twisted her gloved hands. She wished Erik was here to consult with her, but she had to follow this path to see where it might lead. "I will sing for your partners, Monsieur Abbey, as long as I am able to choose the music."

"Of course," he replied, clapping a hand on the furious Durand's back. "You can join us, Edmund, if you like. Our doors are open to all." He seemed to say this with a bit of a derisiveness in his voice that had not been there before. What had transpired between these men in the past?

Why _had_ Abbey decided to start a new opera house?

"When shall I be there?" she asked.

"As soon as you can, my dear," Abbey said, smiling once again. "I shall head that way now and await your arrival with bated breath." This time, he held out a hand to take hers and bend over it. "A pleasure once again, Mademoiselle Daaé."

She nodded, and he swept his way through the crowd. Durand gave a quick bow and fled on his heels, still furious. As soon as she was certain the men were leaving, she continued her way upstairs and to the hotel room.

She was rather surprised to find that Erik had not arrived before her. However, she used the opportunity to unlatch her father's violin case and retrieve the sheets of parchment within. The heavy drapes of red silk in her overskirt made it easy for her to tuck the pieces of paper until they were hidden, her tight bodice keeping them secure. She could have asked Erik his thoughts on the matter, but his first instinct was usually self-preservation.

And she did not want to give him time to _think_.

Erik arrived a brief time later, balancing a plate of food in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. Standing in the middle of the room, she watched him enter with a sweep of his cloak. Her husband. He was her husband.

"I have good news and bad news," she said seriously.

He paused in the middle of turning around after closing the door with his elbow. His mouth opened as he appeared to consider his options of replies, and then he closed it. Finally, he intoned, "Which is what, wife?"

Oh, that word. It filled her belly with warmth. "I was beset upon by Messieurs Durand and Abbey, who seemed to be warring over who shall have me in their company." The thought made her blush from the attention, but she had to use it to her advantage. "I believe I can use their interest to secure quite a decent contract. However, my love, it does mean _that_ – " here she pointed at his food and wine – "will have to wait until we return."

"Return?" His eyes darkened in the dying glow of the fire that she had not stirred. "You do not mean that you intend for us to leave this room again tonight?"

Unspoken promises hung in the air between them.

She swallowed. "Regrettably, yes." Toying with the finger of one of her gloves, she added, "I also intend to make the wait worth your time." Oh God, how did she manage to act so forward with him tonight? Her face felt aflame, but she held his gaze even as he stared her down.

"Oh, _wife_ , that is precisely what I shall do for you."

* * *

With the plate of treats and the bottle of fairly acceptable vintage left waiting for them, Erik hailed a cab for them both. Night had fallen outside, leaving the air chilly. He hoped Christine did not notice the way he shuddered when she pressed herself against his side once they climbed into the carriage. She interlaced their gloved hands, and he thought his heart might burst from joy.

How had he been enabled to find such happiness? If he had realized the pains of his life might lead him in the direction of this angel nestling her cheek against his arm, he might have weathered the suffering with more grace than he had.

He shoved such black thoughts away.

On the drive, Christine told him the details of how the two men had accosted her in the lobby of the hotel. If Erik had been by her side, he thought perhaps they would never have decided to speak in such a crass way before her. Certainly, he would not have allowed her to agree to this evening meeting, no matter what might be the positive outcome.

Still, Christine seemed pleased by this turn of events. He forbade her from speaking so that the night air did not irritate her throat, but her warmth at his side was more than enough company.

They arrived at the address they had been given. In the darkness of the street's gas lamps loomed an enormous building of light-colored brick that encompassed the entire block. Christine peered out of the carriage's window, eyes wide.

Erik took her hand, pressing her knuckles to his lips. "I would draw too much attention by your side."

Despite her obvious nervousness, she smiled at him. "As long as I know you are there, I will be fine."

He bent to kiss her hand again, but she scooted across the bench to press her own kiss against his mouth, her lips cool from the night air but oh-so sweet. She sighed as she broke away from him and stepped out of the carriage without looking back.

Once he knew no eyes were upon him, he slipped into the shadows of the theatre. While the face of the building was wholly intact, construction around the back made it easy for him to find his way inside. There were too few back rooms for him to hide successfully, but the space above the stage was impressively complex. He saw evidence that they were including electric wires throughout the building, perhaps in anticipation of the future of lighting to come.

He climbed among the catwalks and surveyed the auditorium. The structure of the inside seemed firmly completed, but there were no seats to be found yet. Two tiers of private boxes spread out in horseshoe fashion from the stage, and the layers of space for opera goers stretched high to the ceiling. The Metropolitan Opera, when it opened next year, might be the largest opera house ever built.

When Christine sang here, he would be able to tell the quality of this place. However, from his first observation, he was impressed enough.

Christine was entering the auditorium with Abbey at her elbow. Erik knew little about the man, and he would have to delve into his background before he allowed Christine to sign any contract. From Christine's laughter, he could see _she,_ at least, was at ease around the manager.

A group of men stood near the stage. From their finery, they seemed to be wealthy businessmen, and Abbey introduced Christine to each. Erik held back a chortle when he listened to Abbey explain the reasoning behind the Metropolitan Opera's construction. A group of families, newly-made millionaires, had been unable to buy private boxes at the Academy. In retribution, they had decided to build their own opera house.

It was a shrewd move that Erik could appreciate.

The Academy's Durand stood, scowling, in the back corner of the auditorium. This… Met truly surpassed the Academy in style and grandeur. If they succeeded in drawing Christine away from the older opera house, the Academy might never recover from the loss of her brilliance.

His beloved was climbing the stage. Erik settled his eyes upon her.

* * *

Six men watched her every move. Seven, including the one she needed most.

Perhaps, months ago, this might have unnerved her. She could feel their eyes upon her as she climbed the stairs to stand in the middle of the stage. Without seats in this large, empty space, she thought her voice might echo, but there was little she could do to alter that. She had wavered during her first audition. Now, she found it easy to keep her spine straight.

Another man settled into the orchestra pit, taking a seat at the grand piano, the only instrument there.

"What will you sing?" Abbey asked her, in French. "I hope Verdi's _Nabucco_ again?"

"Of course," she replied. She waited for the cue from the pianist and launched into the aria. Despite the reverberation from the theatre, she thought she did well. Erik did not speak in her ear, but she did not need affirmation from him to know how much her voice had impressed the men standing before the stage.

Enthusiastic clapping met her ears. Even Abbey, who had heard her before, had tears in his eyes, and Durand, tucked in the back of the auditorium, was also clapping.

"Brava, mademoiselle," Abbey said, still pounding his palms together.

"Madame." She had corrected him before she realized it.

His eyebrows rose. "Pardon, if I had gotten it wrong."

"You had not yesterday." A laugh bubbled up within her. "I have only just gotten married."

Abbey brightened, and two of the other men nudged each other good-naturedly. "Then congratulations are in order. Perhaps we might celebrate with another song?"

"Encore, encore!" one of the other men named Vanderbilt cheered.

Christine had come prepared for this. "I had something in mind. Would an original piece be acceptable?" As she spoke, she pulled the sheets of paper from the folds of her dress, smoothing the parchment.

"Who is the composer?" Abbey asked.

She grinned. "My husband."

Ah, now she heard that low voice in her ear: "Dearest, what are you doing?"

Of course, she could not reply. If he truly asked her to cease this avenue she was pursuing, she would stop. She sensed he was holding his breath and waiting to see what happened, so she walked the papers over to the edge of the stage where the pianist could take them.

The man glanced at the music, then up at her. "This's for violin," he said in English. He twisted, looking up at the businessmen. "I don't have a violin with me."

Christine spread her hands. "I could sing it without, but the piece is meant to be a duet between instrument and voice."

"Do you _have_ a violin?" Abbey asked the man in the pit.

He shrugged. "A collection of instruments is piling up in one of the back rooms. There's probably one there."

* * *

Oh, his sneaky wife, stealing his sheet music and bringing it here! Erik crouched on the catwalks high above the stage, wavering between annoyance and pride. While the men scrambled to find a violin, he had discovered what Christine likely was scheming.

An opera house could do more than put on elaborate productions of someone's opera. They often showcased new works, and they could do the same with his music… for a price. Erik was unsure if he deemed such notoriety necessary. Had he not crafted _Don Juan_ for the purpose of being recognized for his talent across the world? Instead, he had used it to manipulate Christine and almost destroy her.

But circumstances were so different now. He needed a passable way to produce income in a manner that would not appall Christine. To continue to be worthy of her, he could not reduce himself once again to extortion.

This meant that he could not _force_ the hands of these businessmen to invest in his music.

Below, the pianist – who was talented enough – had found a violin and was attempting to sight-read Erik's composition. Erik knew his song would be difficult, nay, impossible, to play without extensive practice; the melody deliberately twisted the fingers as much as it was meant to twist the soul. He had written it as a means of healing himself, after all, in order to unravel the torment his own actions had caused.

Swiftly, he found where they had stored their instruments, clicking his tongue at the half hazard way they had laid them around the room. Clearly these men were more focused on being able to strut about in their finery than listen to exquisite music. He saw some potential here for his own meddling to shine this mess into a diamond.

Quietly tuning the instrument against his ear, he made his way back to his perch and cringed to hear the pianist attempting to screech out some of his more complicated rhythms. Christine was starting to twist her fingers, a habit she had developed to combat her own nervousness. He saw the way she sought out the lump of his ring on her gloved finger, and a flash of possessive satisfaction blazed through him.

He set the violin to his chin, closed his eyes, and played.

* * *

The men were growing agitated at the wait, and Christine could tell the situation was starting to affect her. All she had wanted was to showcase Erik's talent, but she had only so far succeeded in having the pianist embarrass himself.

When she was about to call it off, she heard the tendrils of another violin waft down from above. She knew immediately it was Erik – only he could draw that sound from that instrument in the way she had only ever heard her father play. The businessmen hushed as each of them heard the music, their heads turning as they tried to find the musician. They would not, of course.

Erik had not yet played the introduction of his piece, but he slid his way into it easily, merging his notes with those of his song. A smile tugging at her lips, Christine waited for her cue and let her voice rise up to entwine with his instrumental melody.

It was a beautiful song, unlike anything she had heard him compose before. Even though this was not the first time she had encountered it, not at all, tears welled up within her eyes, threatening to overspill as she sang. The men were rapt at attention, intermittingly staring at her and at the ceiling.

She and Erik finished, their connected triumph echoing in the empty chamber, and long seconds passed before anyone spoke. In her ear, Erik whispered, sounding slightly choked.

"I love you."

She glanced upward, smiling where she knew he could see it. Then she leveled her gaze upon the stupefied men before her. From their astonished faces, and the way Durand suddenly stormed out of the theatre, she knew she had them.

"Well, gentleman?" she asked in French. "I am willing to negotiate."

* * *

An hour later, Christine finally dragged her heavy skirts into a carriage that would take her back to the hotel, nearly collapsing onto the bench seat.

"Make a circle around the opera house," she asked the driver, who did so, and they paused to let in a shadowed figure who had been waiting.

Erik slid in next to her. In one moment, he was banging his fist against the cabin to signal the driver to continue; in the next, he was delving shaky fingers into her pinned hair and running calloused thumbs across her cheekbones.

"Ah, my love, my angel," he murmured, sliding his lips from her forehead to her jawline, a line of skin to which she greedily gave him access by tilting her head back. "You were magnificent."

She laughed breathlessly. "They agreed to everything – my singing contract, your position as artistic advisor. Even showcasing your music between productions!" She grasped at his shoulders to pull him closer, his cloak bunching under her fingers. "Four years, Erik!"

"I would have preferred five," he said against her skin.

"Even so, you greedy man." His mask was cold upon her neck as he kissed his way down to the square neckline of her bodice. She squirmed, wanting to talk but also wanting all of him at once. "They even agreed to let you maintain anonymity. I think they are used to such behavior from business partners. Plus, they seem to like the mystery."

He pulled back to peer down at her, eyes two fiery points in the darkness. "We shall tread carefully, my love. The rich love their gossip. They may not rest until they have found me out."

"Then there are other opera houses in this world, are there not?" She unfurled her arms around his neck, drawing him close once again. "Kiss me, husband."

Shuddering, he did so without hesitation, lips tugging at hers, a moan in his throat.

All too soon, they arrived at the hotel. He intertwined his fingers with hers and led her upstairs to their room. Staring at his hat and cloak, those lengthy shoulders, the edge of his wig just above his collar, she flashed to other times he had taken her somewhere. Her wrist had been encased in his fist, and she had stumbled in order to slow him. Now, she squeezed their fingers together and picked up the front hem of her skirts so that she might follow without tripping.

She had hoped he would fall upon her like a predator might its prey once they were alone inside their room, the door locked behind them. However, he left her side almost immediately and began to see to the room, lighting a gas lamp and kneeling to stir the fire. She followed him, taking hold of his hat when she drew near. To her satisfaction, he only glanced at her and went back to the fire. She set upon his cloak next, leaning into his back to search for the clasp at his neck. His throat bobbed at the searching sweep of her fingers.

Finally, the heavy fabric fell away. As he finished with the fire, she hung his cloak and hat, and added her own articles of outer clothing to the rack. She thought briefly of the food and wine still patiently available upon the table, but she found she had little appetite for _food_.

"I keep awaiting something to happen," he said quietly, stoking the fire.

"What do you mean?"

"Too many things have fallen into place, too many variables clicking together that I thought were out of my reach forever." She came back to his side and stroked his wig; he caught her hand and brought the tips of her fingers around to kiss. "Perhaps I will blink and awaken."

She laughed softly. "You sleep too little for dreams, my love. And even so, you are very much awake at this moment."

"Am I?" His deft fingers tugged at her glove until his lips could stroke the sensitive skin of her inner wrist. "You are too warm for this to be a dream." He turned his head slightly, teeth dragging deliciously along her wrist, to peer up at her. "Are you this warm everywhere else?"

"I-I would not protest," she gasped, "should you wish you find out."

"Indeed, I do so wish." He scraped white teeth along her wrist, and she shivered. Biting into the fingertip of her glove, he eased the leather downward until her hand was bare. He did the same to her other glove, and when both hands were freed, he pressed the knuckles of each to his lips.

"May I?" she asked, reaching for his mask. At his nod, she hooked her fingers around the porcelain and gently pulled it from his face. He had worn it too long today during his excursions, and some of the uneven ridges were an irritated red. Bending down, she kissed just below the line of his wig, tracing his twisted cheek with her fingers.

His hands grasped at the red silk of her dress, pulling her a step closer. "I do not… I do not _deserve-_ "

"Hush," she said, echoing the word with her fingertips upon the seam of his mouth. "I only want tonight to be about us, moving forward, together." Prying his fists from her skirt, she tugged until he climbed to his feet. Her blue eyes scanned over his as she began to loosen his bowtie.

"I am in need of a bath," he admitted, sounding a bit hesitant.

She only smiled up at him. "May I join you?"

His eyes widened at that, but she was his wife, and he was her husband, and by God, she would have everything she had wanted from him for so long. Last night had only spurred her desire to be close to him, to know him as well as he knew her. However, she knew not to push him too much, that he was as cognizant of the scars upon his body as he was the marring of his face.

He did not reply, but neither did he stop her assault upon his bowtie. As she released the silk and tossed it upon the nearby divan, his hands drifted to her bodice. He did not undo any clasps, not yet, instead distracting her by the firmness of the pressure of his hands as he caressed the womanly shape of her. She inhaled sharply at the contact, senses already aflame, and his lips curled upward.

"I have barely touched you, my love," he said teasingly.

He should not dare to play such a game with her. Unbuttoning one of the middle buttons of his shirt, she thrust her hand inside, pressing her palm against the coolness of his chest. She felt his shuddering breath and the way his heartbeat began to race. When he spoke, his lovely voice rumbled up from beneath her hand.

"Ah, my match, in all ways."

Consenting to her wishes, he set upon the clasps of her bodice as she also followed the line of his buttons, undoing him to his waistcoat, which she also cast aside, until he was bare to the navel. His white skin shone in the light of the fireplace. How easy to undress a man! His cream-colored waistcoat followed quickly.

Her bodice parted, and he pushed the fabric apart. In the same movement, she also shoved at the shoulders of his tailcoat, and he had to pause for a moment while she removed it down his arms. At once, his fingers were upon her again, mirroring her motions and sliding her bodice down her arms. His shirtsleeves gaped at a V from throat to quivering, flat stomach. That pale skin held her entranced attention until he bade she turn around with firm, insistent hands.

Quick tugs upon her waist, and the thick yards of her silk gown drifted to the floor in a puddle of red and gold fabric. Her bustle followed, tossed onto the divan, and then he was ridding her of layers of thick petticoats until she stood in a circle of her own clothing.

"Erik-"

Before she could say anything more, he had scooped her into his sturdy arms, and he was off to the bathroom with them both. He placed her carefully onto her feet, bent to turn on the tap to fill the tub, and then knelt to one knee. She still wore her shoes, and he pulled these off first before sliding his hands up her calves.

His eyes flickered to her face once, and she caught sight of the mischievous glint to them. She had worried that undressing before her would cause him to shut down, but he seemed to be handling the situation well, channeling to focus to her instead of him. His touch light and cool, he found the clasps that held up her stockings and undid them, rolling down each, his fingertips unmistakable in the way they chased the thin fabric with their own caresses.

She took the time to stroke the top of his wig before easing her thumb to the edge of where his wig met his forehead. If he wanted to pull away, he could do so, but he did not. And so she pulled it off and set it carefully aside, and set to running her hands across his bare scalp, his thin hair.

Both of her stockings were off. "Turn around, dearest," he murmured, and she did so without hesitation, letting him unlace her corset and remove the binding garment so that she stood in only chemise and drawers.

Suddenly, _he_ was wearing too much clothing, and she wanted it _off_.

She heaved his shirt free of his pants, startling him so that he snapped his eyes to meet hers. Ignoring him, she unbuttoned the shirt the rest of the way and shoved it free of his shoulders, letting gravity drag it to his wrists. Since she had not unbuttoned his cuffs, the shirt caught upon his hands, leaving his hands caught at his sides. So much the better for her. She stepped closer, feasting upon his broad, smooth chest with fingers and lips, tasting the slight salty flavor from his earlier travels and the dark musk that was only him.

A breathy kind of moan rose from him. He unfastened his own cuffs, letting the fabric fall to the tile floor. The tub was filled, and he paused long enough to turn off the water.

"You are beautiful," he breathed.

"So are you," she said, and she bent to her knees, mimicking his earlier position. Like he had done for her, she unlaced his shoes and slid each off his feet. Then she rolled down his black socks, baring his long, white feet, his angular toes. She could have risen at that moment, but she decided instead to remain on her knees, singularly aware of the fierce attention of his eyes, the shakiness of his fists.

Sliding her hands up his thighs, her wandering fingers found the buttons of his trousers and flicked them open. His eyes blazed. Grabbing fistfuls of the black linen of his pants, she dragged them downward, noticing with no small satisfaction that they caught upon a rise just below his belly.

Once he had stepped free of his pants, she stood. He kissed her at once, lips melding with hers, tongue lancing and demanding freely-given entry.

He parted long enough to state, "Into the bath, wife."

He found the hem of her chemise and pulled it over her head, baring her to his hungry gaze. Tenderly, he untied the bandage around her stomach until the thin fabric left her bullet gash uncovered. It had mostly scabbed over, and he nodded approvingly before giving her a look that sent her heart racing.

As he dragged the backs of his knuckles from her collarbone to her stomach, she did the same to him, until they both reached the waist of each other's drawers. Together, they untied. Twin pieces of linen fell to the floor.

She allowed herself a single rake of her eyes along his naked flesh before fastening her attention to his eyes. The swirling passion she saw there made her legs feel weak. He extended a hand, and she took it, stepping into the bath. The water felt exquisite, the warmth heady and caressing. Erik followed her quickly, leaning against the far end of the porcelain. She stared at him, his long legs stretching to either side of her. He was magnificent, all long limbs and pale skin. She crept forward, and his lips curled just as his hand did, beckoning.

With his hands guiding her, she turned around. His hands crept to her hair. One by one, he released the pins from her hair, letting them ping upon the tile floor until her long tresses were freed. Then he coaxed her to lean her back against his chest. The position was intimate, the shock of his dampened skin upon hers taking her breath away. She could feel his arousal against her lower back, although he seemed in no hurry to truly consummate their marriage. Her nerves fired off, and she was almost the point of begging him to touch her.

Luckily, he did so without request, running his calloused fingers along her inner arm before dropping to her side and caressing her ribs.

She squirmed. "Touch me."

His chuckle reverberated around her. "I am."

"No, _touch me_." Stilling his hand, she took it and placed it upon her breast, his weight heavy and welcome.

To her dismay, he removed his hand. But instead, he grasped the bar of soap, rubbing it until it was a thick lather, then returning his hands to her sensitive skin. _O-Oh!_ That felt heavenly, the slip and glide of his soapy palms against those two globes, the way he tested the weight of them in his hands and gently squeezed.

Despite herself, she arched into his touch, letting out a cry.

"My, we are sensitive today," he cooed in her ear, pinching the two peaks of her breasts, and then brushing his rough thumbs across them when they pebbled. "Tell me – are you still sore, wife?"

She might have been a little, and she was anxious that the second time might hurt as well. Yet she wanted this closeness with him too badly to stop. Her hips bucked as one of his hands drifted lower, fingers splaying across her belly. She grasped onto each of his thighs, blunt nails digging into him, and he hissed, not a pained sound.

"Please," she whispered. "Please – oh, please, Erik."

His teeth found the shell of one of her ears, teasing the delicate skin there. His hand continued its downward descent until his fingertips brushed the curls between her legs. He was warm, so warm from the bath, slick skin behind her, legs stretching out beyond hers. The soap had turned the water an opaque, milky color, hiding his fingers as he delved beneath the surface. Finally, finally, he slid over her sex, sending sparks up her spine and heat below her belly.

She clutched at his thighs, and he was ruthless in his pursuit of her, his own harsh breaths hot in her ear. Those lithe fingers, those musical digits, swirled and pressed and did not so much as ease her into her pleasure as they did crash her into a churning abyss. She writhed against that hand, her knees clutching together as she split apart in a series of sparks that were almost painful.

His fingers slowed, his touches turning more into lazy caresses, easing her down from her cliff. Her heart pounded, and he waited until she had drifted back to herself before wrapping his arms around her and clutching her tightly.

"Such an exquisite creature you are," he murmured, the reverberation of his voice sending shivers down her arms.

She shifted, feeling the hard length of him pressing into her back. When she trapped him between their slick bodies, he let out a groan.

"Do you need something, monsieur?" she asked coyly.

"You, only ever you."

His reply made her pause. She twisted around so that she could see his face, and the look he gave her, that desperate adoration, made her understand that he spoke his own truth. Although he had once tried to manipulate her into marriage, it was her very existence at his side that he craved the most. Even after all the physical attention they had shared, he might have been content with only this – her in his arms.

But they had the rest of their lives to spend in this simple embrace.

She stretched up to glide her lips across his, a ghost of a caress that caused him to tremble beneath her. "Our water grows tepid."

He gave a strangled laugh. "So it is." And he quickly sluiced his body as she rinsed her own.

She wanted to wash him herself, to feel his skin beneath her palms, slippery with soap, his scars a map of his past. If she asked him now about the silver gash across one of his arms or the large, shiny mark upon his hip, he might tell her like he had talked about the slashes across his back. But like those remnants of his time in the carnival, the rest of his scars likely carried memories she did not want him remembering tonight.

Tonight was about their future.

Instead, she bent and kissed where something had ripped into his bicep, letting her kisses say what she did not just yet: _I see you, I know you, and I love you._

When Erik pulled the plug to drain the tub, shyness began to overtake her. It was one thing to be beneath the water with him, and quite another to stand naked before him. To her relief, he seemed to feel the same pressure, and before the water could drain much, he grabbed two towels, handing one to her. Then they both stood, she tucking the towel under her arms while he draped it around his slender waist.

Eyes adverted, they both dried themselves with equal furor, the ends of her hair dripping onto the floor. She let out a laugh at their own awkwardness. Was it so arduous to be naked in front of the man she loved?

Just when she was about to toss away the towel, Erik stretched a hand to her. She slid her hand into his broader one, letting him lead her to the bed. After pulling aside the covers, he picked her up and set her in the middle of the mattress. She watched him, heavy-lidded, as he stood at the edge of the bed, hands upon the towel wrapped around his hips. She did not want this discomfiture from him, and so she took the first step, spreading the towel open from her own body and tossing it away.

Withstanding his intense eyes, she tried to keep her arms at her sides lest her quivering betrayed her. When he did not move, she managed a small smile.

"Join me?"

He blinked, and finally, let the towel fall from his lean hips. In the flickering light of the fire, he was all long limbs and pale skin, his deformity not so stark and simply a part of him. She ached to feel his skin upon hers again, and she sighed with relief when he placed a knee upon the mattress and slid into place beside her.

They were both still damp from the bath, their skin warm. Erik delved his fingers into her hair, pulling her close to kiss her deeply. Ah, to feel the long line of his body, firm where hers was soft, broad and bony where she curved.

Their lips parted with a soft pop of suction, and he trailed his misshapen lips down to her neck, her collarbone, and lower still, until he could take one of the tips of her breasts into his mouth. She squirmed, running her hands across his shoulders, feeling the scars twisting his flesh there and committing them to memory. But he did not pause long, teasing one bud of flesh into a hard pebble before questing to the other to do the same. She writhed.

He continued lower, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses down her ribcage to the slight curve of her stomach and the roundness of her hip.

"E-Erik?" she stammered in question.

"Let me."

His breath fanned across her most intimate area as he kissed her inner thigh, gently but relentlessly spreading one of her knees to make room for him to slide between her legs. Almost in reflex, she brought the other knee up along with it until her legs clung to his shoulders. He gave a single lick, and she nearly bucked against him.

She brought one hand to her mouth, biting into the firm flesh of her palm just below her thumb to stifle a high whimper. Her voice did not sound like her own, her cries mewing and catching in her throat. Unlike in the bath, when he had used his knowledge of her body to plunder her senses away, he took his time with tongue and lips, lapping at her folds with delicious slowness. He found the little bud that ached the most, and she was so sensitive from earlier that she could hardly bear the pressure of touch.

His devouring of her was slow and gentle, and her mind lifted away until she was again tightly strung, thighs tensing around his head. She brought her hands to his scalp, twisting her fingers into his sparse strands of hair. She was spinning away once more, so much so that when he added a single digit within her core, she immediately clamped down in the throes of her second release.

He continued stroking her as pleasure pulsed through her, his tongue lavishing its steady strokes. Her knees eased away from his head, her limbs feeling heavy. Finally, he relented, climbing up her body with slow precision, and she opened to receive him, languid in her own movements. A thick probing made her suck in a breath until his lips angled across hers, and she tentatively lapped with her tongue, inviting him inside in more than one way. There was no pain this time, only a bit of discomfort, but his kisses, his slow caresses, his murmurs helped her to relax.

She shifted against the utter feeling of being stretched, of being filled, and he slid in abruptly, causing them both to share a gasp.

He started slow, so slow, so slow she tossed her head back and forth and finally begged him to increase his tempo lest she completely fall apart in the moment of skin dragging on tender skin. He groaned, eyes clenched shut, and she was lost in the motion of his hips. Her senses fired in all directions, and it was not long before she felt tremors overtake her once again, verging just on the edge of pain. His weight bore her into the mattress, and she wound her arms around him, clutching him to her, his face buried into the curve of her neck.

He buried deep with a wet gasp in her ear and went still before collapsing onto her. She welcomed the bulk of him, unable in her own exhaustion to do more than swirl her fingers in the slick sweat of his shoulders. They lay there in the fading firelight, as close as two people could physically become.

Her ears heard the crackle of the fireplace, the slowing throb of her heart, the soft, staccato breaths of the man above her – and she knew she had made the right choice.

* * *

Erik eased off his beloved, not wanting to crush her, resting upon an elbow next to her. He gazed down at her flushed face, brown curls matted to her forehead, a smile blossoming on her lips. She returned his scrutiny, looking upon him with no fear of his appearance… or his character.

How could he have come so far in the past weeks? Had it truly been such a short amount of time since he had fallen apart? And here, here was the angel who had not given up on him.

Ah, there was her bashfulness, surfacing in the way that she began to squirm a little. They were both completely unclothed, after all, though he took measures to keep his eyes on her face.

"What is it, Erik?"

"I took your name."

"What?" she asked again, this time softly. "Oh, you mean… the wedding."

He leaned over and kissed the rise of one of her breasts, then drew the blankets up to their shoulders for the comfort of them both. "On our certificate of marriage, yes."

"How?"

"I recorded my name as Erik Daaé on the document." He watched her reaction carefully. "Yours, I wrote as Christine Nilsson."

Her eyes widened, but he knew she had seen the name on the paper when she signed. "My mother's maiden name."

"Yes. Unfortunately, by law, you must take your husband's surname, and I could see little other way to make it legal."

"You took my name legally?"

He let out a noise, a rather strangled chuckle. "Yes, my dear. We are officially Monsieur and Madame Daaé, at least in the eyes of the American government."

He thought she would be happy, and he expected some reaction like that, but he was not expecting her to rush into his arms and burst into tears. Stroking her hair, he murmured, "I should have spoken with you about it first."

A laugh bubbled up within her. She raised up, tears cutting down her cheeks, a wide grin upon her full lips. "You did this for _me_. To be able to keep my father's name."

Ah, so the tears were from joy. "You will still be Christine Daaé, up there upon the stage. Whenever they cheer your name, I will be watching."

She laughed again. "Yes, you will be watching, husband! I bought you a box!"

"Pardon?" he asked, stunned.

"A box, an opera box! It cost the first month of my salary, but that was a bargain considering what they are charging the other shareholders. _Yes_ , Erik." Her blue eyes twinkled in the firelight. "When I sing, I want you there, left of the stage, as always."

As always. An opera box, his own, a space where he could listen to Christine sing – his very own wife – and perhaps be able to toss his own rose down to her.

He lay back upon the pillow, and Christine curled up to his side. They had much to do. They needed a place to live, with enough space for Laurent – and the Daroga, should he ever decide to join them. They needed a piano, a garden, a room where he could compose, all of those items Christine had mentioned, which they could share together.

At his side, Christine sighed, tucking her cheek against his arm as she began to slip toward sleep. He did not think he had made enough good choices in his life to deserve such easy consequences as these, but he would not squander what he had been gifted.

A thought occurred to him. He nudged Christine's shoulder, trying to wake her without startling her. She stirred, blinking a hazy blue eye at him.

"Mm?"

"Would you go for a walk with me on Sunday?"

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Much of the details I included about the Academy of Music and the Metropolitan Opera in New York are routed in history. Durand is a made-up character, but Abbey most certainly was among the first trio of managers of the Met, if not _the_ first manager. He did indeed have a large mustache! The Academy of Music did indeed close its doors to opera a couple of years after the Met opened. All of my descriptions are based on the original design of the Met, which went up in flames eight years after its completion. They rebuilt it, and later, the Met moved to its current location.**

 **Abbey is also credited with discovering Christina Nilsson, who opened the first season of the Met with _Faust._ If you know much about the original novel of the Phantom of the Opera, you know that Leroux likely used Christina Nilsson, a Swedish opera singer, as his inspiration for Christine. Early on in this fanfic, I discovered this connection, and everything fell into place so easily, including the timing of the building of the Met.**

 **Anyway, an epilogue to go!**

 **Thanks for reading!**


	26. Epilogue

**This epilogue wanted to be written like this, and it refused anything else. I hope you enjoy it.**

* * *

 **Epilogue**

 _Almost One Year Later._

Nadir Khan considered himself a rather knowledgeable man. He had, after all, been chief of police in Mazandaran for sixteen years and a public servant of the law in one way or another long before then. He knew a lot about many things in this world – from tea, to weapons, to literature. If someone asked him, he would say he understood much about numerous topics, that he was a man of simple tastes that ran deep.

He was also rather excellent at understanding _people_.

However, what he did not understand was his own perplexing, aggravating, and _wearisome_ persistence of a certain brooding, unpredictable man. This was not the first time he had crossed half the world to find Erik. It would likely not be the last.

He sighed heavily and sipped his morning tea while watching from his deck chair as the ship slowly cruised into New York harbor. Admittedly, he had been nervous to set sail across the Atlantic Ocean after reading in the paper that _La Roche_ had crashed upon arriving, even if he had also received word (from an extremely vague and encrypted letter) that Erik and Christine were both unharmed. He did not enjoy being out in open water with no escape, the vast expanse of the ship churning beneath his feet like a racing heartbeat or stomachache.

He had left too many belongings in Paris. Nadir did not need a lavish lifestyle to be happy, and indeed his pension from the Persian establishment did not allow for it, but he did enjoy his tea sets, his books, his antique furniture, his ornate rugs and drapes. All of it he had left behind, taking besides his clothing and toiletries only his wife's favorite tea set made of a vibrant blue china, a few of his choice books written in Persian, and anything that remained to remind him of his late wife and child.

The ship pulled into New York harbor, easing to the dock in an excruciatingly slow manner. Finally, _finally_ , they were allowed to disembark, and he had to wait a few more hours to retrieve his trunk and other belongings before being able to load them onto a carriage.

Blast it, his trip here had taken entirely too long. He had not been able to retrieve the funds he needed until well after the summer, and even then, the men who handled his pension had taken their time in transferring his pension to a bank in New York.

By now, almost a year had passed since he had bid Erik goodbye. For all he knew, both Erik and Christine no longer lived in New York, if they had settled here at all. He had no address for either of them. He had never been given one since the only letter he had received had simply stated they were both alive. However, he did know that Christine Daaé had come here to sing, and therefore, any opera houses in the area might have heard of her. If _they_ had not heard of her, he thought perhaps he would have to start branching out.

It was not the first time he had tracked someone down.

The cab driver spoke of the Academy of Music as the oldest opera house in New York, so Nadir asked the man to take him there. He paid him a little extra to wait, and he hopped down to dip inside the front of the building.

Once someone inside flagged down the manager, Nadir asked the man if he had heard of Christine Daaé. Nadir had found Christine to be a rather likeable young lady, so he was startled when the man turned red in the face and began shouting about how there was no one with that name here, if this was a joke, and if he wanted to find Miss Daaé, he could very well see her in the autumn along with anyone else with no taste in music.

As the man was about to bodily show Nadir the way out, he did not bother asking questions. His driver was able to smooth out his confusion anyway.

"Oh, he must be speaking of that new place going up on Broadway. I'll take you there."

 _Two_ opera houses in one city? He found it odd that such a city, even as large as New York, could support such dueling entertainment venues. In any case, when they pulled up before a large white-bricked building, he climbed down once again.

He immediately knew he was in luck: a poster mentioning Christine singing in a preview adorned the entrance.

After waiting a while for someone to find the manager, a mustached man met him in the lobby. He knew that look – the sweeping up and down of suspicious eyes; he did, of course, appear _differently_ than most of the people in this area. But he was used to such treatment, and he merely tipped his hat and greeted the man in his heavily accented English.

"Good morning! I am trying to find Miss Christine Daaé." He pointed at the poster. "I believe I am in the right place, yes?"

"Depends on who wishes to know. We do try to maintain the privacy of our performers."

"Of course." Nadir stuck out his hand. "Nadir Khan. I knew Christine while she lived in Paris and sang at the Populaire."

"Did you now?" The man still seemed suspicious, but he accepted Nadir's hand. "Henry Abbey."

"Nice to meet you. I just arrived from Paris myself."

"Unfortunately, Christine won't be back to sing for a few more weeks. She is on sabbatical before she comes back to headline another preview. We are opening in October, you see. Need to generate some buzz."

"I understand that. Could you direct me to her house?"

Abbey stroked his mustache. "She has never mentioned you by name."

"I am called many names," Nadir said, smiling, and swept a hand over himself. "The Persian, for one. Daroga, for another."

Abbey snapped his fingers. "Daroga! Now _that_ is a moniker I have heard before." He winced. "Not as anything but the target of a joke, however. In any case, she seems fond of you." Jotting down an address, he gave it to Nadir. "Good luck."

Nadir sighed and headed back toward the awaiting carriage.

At least he was getting a tour of the ritzier side of New York. Now, his driver turned down streets that were more modest but still contained decent-sized apartments. Nadir peered outside the window frame at a corner townhome in red brick, four stories high. Did Christine Daaé live here by herself, in this enormous and rather lavish home? Perhaps she rented a room.

"Wait here?" he asked the driver once again.

He walked up the concrete steps and rapped on the door using the heavy knocker. A moment later, a young man opened it. He was thin-framed and rather short, with sandy-blonde hair and barely enough mustache to call it so. He wore a smart brown day suit that seemed a bit formal for the morning. Nadir guessed he might be a servant.

"Good morning," the man said, his accent sounding of French origin. "I am Auguste Laurent, the butler here. How may I be of assistance?"

"Bonjour, Monsieur Laurent," Nadir said, testing the waters, and the young man grinned at him. They both switched to French, each now speaking more easily. "I am looking for Christine Daaé."

"You have only just missed her, monsieur," Laurent said. "May I ask who is calling?"

"Nadir Khan."

Instantly, Laurent's eyes brightened. He swung the door open wider, gesturing enthusiastically. "Ah, come in, come in!" But then he paused, putting up a hand to block Nadir. "Hold on, monsieur. I must ask you – what was the gift you gave Christine before she left Paris?"

Nadir blinked, and then shifted uncomfortably on his feet. "A pistol."

The young man did not react to the mention of a weapon. Instead, he removed his hand from Nadir's path, still smiling broadly. "Forgive me, but we are a suspicious lot." He dipped his head in a small bow. "I thank you for the pistol. It saved my life once."

"A story will you have to tell me one day."

"Indeed, though Christine might tell it better than me. It was she who pulled the trigger, after all."

Nadir's mouth flapped open to interject at that, but Laurent was leaning out the door, scrutinizing his carriage.

"Hey, mister!" he called in English. "Bring the luggage 'round, will you? I will tip!" Laurent blinked at Nadir, switching back to French with ease. "I apologize if I am rushing, but you caught me half out the door already. I assume you mean to stay here?"

"I-I do not want to impose."

"You aren't. There is plenty of room. I am on my way to Evergreen – the Daaé summer home – after finishing my internship at a restaurant here in the city." He flashed a grin. "I need more people to test my recipes upon. You are welcome to wait here, of course, but it will be another two or three weeks."

Nadir shook his head. "No, I will come with you. Evergreen, you said?"

"I am told it is an inside anecdote, and I do not bother asking anymore. In any case, they are just renting this place. Do you need to unpack or do you wish to bring all of your belongings?"

"I will bring them all." That seemed easiest, and he was eager to make his way to this summer home.

"All right, Monsieur Khan, let me pack some extra provisions for you, and I will fetch the carriage. A train heads out that way now, but Christine could not stomach the smells last time."

Soon enough, they were off again. Nadir expected Laurent to ride with him in the carriage, but instead the young man drove, apparently quite capable. Nadir felt more at ease now that he was back on land. It seemed as though Christine had made quite a name for herself since coming to New York. He hoped she was as happy as her new circumstances, and Laurent's cheerful company, appeared to indicate.

Laurent spent much of the half-day journey speaking softly to the horse and eventually lulling Nadir to sleep. Nadir was jolted awake by Laurent pulling aside to serve them both lunch. It was then that he learned that Laurent had met Erik and Christine aboard _La Roche_ , where he had been their primary steward. Laurent did not speak much about Christine's private life, and Nadir thought this was likely about of respect for Christine than Laurent's usual personality. Instead, he learned how much Laurent had grown to like both of them while crossing the Atlantic, and the young man felt as though he owed a debt, for multiple reasons.

Nadir at least could now suspect that Erik was still in New York, especially if he had somehow made it possibly for Laurent to pursue his career in cuisine.

They got back onto the road, the time now well into the afternoon.

Nadir could smell the sea long before he caught sight of it. The scent was different than that of the well-used harbor – a cleaner smell mixed with lingering low tide that reminded him of his own past travels. He had never seen an actual beach with miles of sand before, and he was eager for what he was certain was a dazzling view.

Soon, the trees opened up to nothing but miles of light tan sand, which sparkled in the sun. The ocean stretched wide-open parallel to one of the carriage windows, the sound of waves caught whenever the carriage was not too creaky. They passed a couple other houses, and then nothing for almost an hour.

Finally, Laurent pulled them up to a small stable to the side of a rather brown two-story home rising alone in a sea of sand. Many windows of various sizes dotted the exterior, which was all sharp gothic angles combined with curved outcroppings to indicate large interior rooms. A large porch wrapped around the front.

"Here we are," Laurent said, beginning to pull down their luggage. "House Evergreen. It needs a coat of paint, and some boards are loose on the porches, but she's got good bones and plenty of space."

The two men lugged their bags up the stairs to the front porch. Laurent knocked on the door, and finding it locked, opened it with his own key.

"It is me!" he called, entering. There was no answer, but Laurent did not appear disturbed. "Try out back," he told Nadir, still wrestling with their luggage. "You will give them such a shock."

Them?

Nadir had assumed Christine was alone, but he did doubt she would have stayed in such a large house by herself. Enough time had passed that she could have easily have found a husband, but why was she still using her father's name?

Traveling through the home, Nadir enjoyed the fresh but chilly breeze coming through the open windows. While the outside of the home had seemed dingy, the inside was carefully decorated. The furnishings in the home were sparse but well chosen for the space, and warm fabrics and wallpaper livened the space. He caught sight of a baby grand piano in the main living area before he headed out the back door.

The back of the home faced the beach, and the porch's steps fell right into a sandy path through the dunes. He gazed down the stretch of sand and, hearing a woman's laughter, headed toward the line of the ocean, the sand squeaking beneath his shoes.

Halfway down the path, as he crested a dune, he caught sight of Christine in a large sunhat, her petite form sitting upon a blanket, her legs stretched out in front of her. She was singing softly to herself in Swedish. He almost did not want to interrupt her, as her voice was as lovely as he remembered.

Once he grew close, he cleared his throat. She peered over her shoulder at him, a bit startled, but her eyes quickly widened with recognition.

"Monsieur Khan!"

"It is," he said, tipping his hat at her and returning her easy smile. He drew to her side. She wore a purple embroidered wrapper with a shawl around her shoulders. Her shoes and stockings lay beside her; she had taken them off to dip her toes in the sand. She did not seem perturbed by her own bare feet, nor at the causal way in which she was dressed.

She waved a hand at a chair nearby. "Please, sit! I cannot fully explain just how delighted I am to see you, Monsieur Khan, and after nearly a year."

"Nadir, please," he said, sitting. He had to keep a hand on his hat to prevent the somewhat chilly ocean breeze from whipping it away. This was a truly lovely place. He could already breathe easier, the salty air filling his lungs.

"Nadir, then. However did you manage to find me?"

"Your butler kindly escorted me."

He did not miss how her eyes brightened. "Oh good, Laurent is finally here! I have missed his company – _and_ his cooking!" She grinned up at him from beneath her giant hat. "Forgive me for not rising to give you a proper hug. I seem to have ballooned lately, and I cannot get to my feet without help."

"Pardon?"

He had not noticed before, her billowy dress and her own posture hiding her shape. But now she smoothed the purple fabric around her quite round belly.

"Due in two months," she said, "which is perfect timing, really, since the Met does not open until October."

Nadir felt a little light-headed. "Due? You are with child, mademoiselle?"

To his surprise, she _laughed_. "Madame now, dear friend. I told Erik we should at least have sent you a notice about our marriage."

Marriage. The light-headedness continued, causing a ringing in his ears. He gripped the armrests of his chair, glad to be already sitting down. Somewhere beneath the ringing, he heard approaching footsteps, muffled as they were upon the sand. As a shadow fell across him, he looked up to see a dark form, tall against the blue sky.

"Calm yourself, Daroga, before you have a fit," said a familiar wry voice.

Christine glanced between the two men before settling upon Nadir. "I kindly ask that you not punch my husband. I am as much an accomplice in this as he is."

Nadir realized he was balancing upon the balls of his feet. He was not certain where his sudden urge for violence had arisen, but he _had_ clenched his right fist. Forcing himself to relax, he leaned back in the chair, squinting up at Erik.

"Some warning would have been nice."

Erik snorted. "Keeping Christine safe is more important than your own personal comfort." He was carrying a covered tray, which he bent to set on the blanket next to Christine, and it carried various supplies for tea. "Laurent believes he has a sense of humor, not telling me you were out here. Your footprints in the sand are as small as a woman's."

Nadir did not rise to the bait, but rather let it cover him like a familiar blanket. How quickly he and Erik could settle back into their roles with each other. "You only have two cups."

"Laurent is taking his tea inside."

Christine pressed the back of a hand to her mouth, almost covering up her own chortle. "Erik, dear, please fetch Nadir his own cup. Unless you would like me to do it?"

Erik's mouth pressed into a firm line. "You promised you would stay in that spot for an hour."

The smile she gave him was dazzling and obviously mean to be so. "Tell Laurent I said welcome back."

He grunted, but left immediately. As he walked away, Nadir noticed that he wore no wig beneath his hat. He swung his eyes back to Christine. "Well played, madame."

"I wanted a moment more with you," she admitted. "I can tell you are surprised that Erik and I are married. After everything that happened, I suppose I would be surprised myself if you were not. However, I assure you that I married him of my own volition and not due to any such coercing on his part. I love him, Nadir. Very much so."

Nadir suddenly felt chagrin wash over him. He had known Erik for many, many years, and during that time, he had only ever wished for the man to have peace in his life. Now, sitting in this chair with this amazing woman beside him, at the ocean's edge with a lovely house at his back, he was ashamed that he had ever thought Christine incapable of making her own choices in life, free of anyone's pressure.

As Christine continued to fondly rub her expanded belly, Nadir saw the black-stoned ring upon her finger. He knew it must be the same stone that he had let Erik take with him from Persia, the one that had not been able to heal his dying son. Black onyx and all the drugs in the world had not been enough.

However, the stone had brought life back to _someone_ , at least.

"Forgive me, madame," he said. "I suppose I did judge. I know how taken he was with you in Paris, and how much grief he caused you."

She smoothed her dress over her belly once again, contemplative. "I know he did. We cannot forget the past, but I can certainly move on from it. These past ten months have not been… easy. The pregnancy has made him rather wild in his overprotectiveness at times, and he often has nightmares, which have only gotten worse now that I am showing."

Nadir knew about the nightmares, which were not a new occurrence. He suspected Erik worried about Christine's safety in such a condition, and, he knew this was even more likely – Erik worried that his child would be born with his same facial deformities. How the man managed not to tear himself apart with anxiety was likely due to Christine's own calm ground of him.

"I am sure there are many stories to tell, my dear, most of which our mutual friend would not like me to hear." He managed a rueful laugh. "It is good to see you both again, and doing so well."

At that time, he caught sight of Erik heading back toward the beach, teacup and saucer held in one hand, a bottle of chestnut brown liquor in the other. Two small glasses balanced within his lithe fingers. He came to a stop in front of Nadir.

"Tea or whiskey, old man?"

A smile plucked at his lips. "Whiskey."

He watched, fascinated, as Erik folded his long limbs to sit on the blanket next to Christine, facing away from the beach so he could view both of them. Despite the other man's grumpiness, there was an ease about him that had not been there before. Erik had always had a certain gait in his step, an odd awkwardness that exposed how unused he was to existing around other people. Now he walked like… a man. A tall, imposing, misshapen, short-tempered man, but a man nonetheless.

Erik set aside the whiskey and glasses to pour Christine a cup of tea, adding two lumps of sugar before handing it to her gently. Then he poured two glasses of liquor and raised one for Nadir to take.

Grinning, Christine raised her cup of tea. "To old friends."

"To old friends," both men said.

The whiskey burned going down his throat, and he coughed at once, not missing the amusement that curved Erik's lips.

"Easy, old man. I would hate if you choked as soon as you have arrived."

In response, Nadir took another big swig, grimacing against the burn but not coughing this time. "I did not know you care so much," he said, a bit hoarse.

Christine sipped her tea. "Please, tell us about how you have been. How was your trip here?"

"Much better than yours, I am sure. Actually, the past year has not been pleasant. The gendarmerie in Paris would not leave me alone, and I had to move out of the city only a month or so after you left."

"You mean you were run out," Erik grunted.

Nadir shrugged. "I did manage to claim most of your collected salary from the banks. They had no legal way of withholding it from me since I knew the name on the accounts, thanks to Madame Giry. I… did give a fair share of it away. Some to the Girys, some to the performers of the Populaire – anonymously, of course. I think you will still be happy with the remaining amount. In any case, it took me a long time to get in touch with the Persian government to transfer my pension to the States."

"That could be done?"

"We will find out."

The two men gazed at each other. Erik knew exactly why Nadir needed the pension to begin with, that it was because of Erik that he had fled Persia lest he himself be killed.

"You will stay here, please?" Christine asked. "We have plenty of room."

Nadir waited for an objection from the other man, but Erik only cut his eyes away. "Thank you, madame. How long do you plan on staying at the Evergreen?"

"A few weeks," Christine said, at the same moment Erik interjected, "As long as it takes." She glared at him without heat. "I was feeling hot and cramped in the city," she explained. "My doctor thought the salty air would do me some good. Hence the relaxed clothing and picnics outside."

Erik did not correct her, but Nadir guessed it was more than that. The pregnancy must be taking its toll on her, though it did not seem to be anything serious. After all they had been through together, Nadir thought this might be more due to Erik's own internal insecurities than an actual physical obstacle with Christine's pregnancy.

Something wordless passed between the married couple. Christine reached across the blanket to touch Erik's ankle, a strangely intimate gesture. Suddenly, Nadir felt like he was intruding on a private moment.

"Perhaps I should go and unpack before it gets dark," he said, standing.

"Past your naptime, old man?" Erik quipped.

"I missed you too, Erik. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon."

Christine smiled. "Join us for dinner later?"

Nodding, he tipped his hat at them both and began to head back to the house, glass in hand. He could hear the couple exchange murmurs between them, and he resisted the urge to look over his shoulder until he had reached the crest of the largest dune.

He looked across at the length of warm sand to see Christine and Erik now sitting side-by-side, arms nearly touching. They were too far away for him to make out details, but he could see when Erik reached up to brush curly hair away from Christine's shoulder. He saw Christine lift her hand and slide free Erik's white mask, the movement easy and without hesitation as though she had done it many times before. Erik himself did not flinch, letting her do as she wished. From this angle, Nadir could not see Erik's bare face, but he could see Christine's smile, and he could see when she tilted her face up for a kiss.

Nadir turned away at that moment, walking the rest of the way to the porch steps, wiping away the moisture beneath his eyes. Erik would never let him hear the end of it if he was caught.

Laurent must have heard him because he came to the back door, opening it. "Were they surprised?"

"I would say that."

"Glad to hear it." Laurent took off his hat, rubbing the sweat from his brow with his handkerchief. "Thank God someone delivered some food to this place, so I don't have to drive back into town. Let me wash up and rest a little, and I can start some dinner. I hope you like scallops." And he was off, leaving Nadir to linger on the porch.

Hesitating, he collected himself, grateful that Laurent had said nothing of his tears. Stepping inside the house, he pulled the door closed behind him, but Christine's laughter blew in through the open windows, ruffling the curtains with her joyfulness. A year had passed, and almost no time at all had passed, and he knew his place was here, with them, for as long as they let him linger.

 _Fin._

* * *

 **I started writing "Choices" at the beginning of the year, and after working on it almost every week since, it feels weird to finally be _done_. **

**Thank you so much to all my steady reviewers. Special thank you to Wheel of Fish for everything.**

 **Come follow me on Tumblr (i-am-melancholys-child) if you aren't already for snippets of my next project, whenever that happens haha!**


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